


we were cold and we were clear

by ryttu3k



Series: and every skyline was like a kiss on the lips [2]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Ancestors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Bond, Closure, Dreams, Epistolary, Identity Issues, Memories, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Recovery, Reunions, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: Beckett's promise to help Sascha comes to a head as he helps facilitate a reunion nearly eight hundred years in the making - and, in the process, confront just what lies under New York City.
Relationships: Beckett/Sascha Vykos, Beckett/Sascha Vykos/Ilias cel Frumos, Sascha Vykos/Ilias cel Frumos
Series: and every skyline was like a kiss on the lips [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188527
Comments: 49
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'wear it close like a mantle (always there to remind you)'. Heavily based on the Beckett's Jyhad Diary chapter Azhi Dahaka, along with Dreams & Nightmares and the Dark Ages Tzimisce novel; first few chapters are also based directly on the BJD chapter The Drowning of Rasputin.
> 
> Warnings for each chapter will be posted individually, please heed them!
> 
> Title and opening lyrics from the Florence + the Machine song Spectrum.

_When we first came here  
We were cold and we were clear  
With no colours on our skin  
We were light and paper thin_

_And when we first came here  
We were cold and we were clear  
With no colours in our skin  
Until we let the spectrum in_

-

 **From:** eu.insumi@schreckNET.nod  
**To:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
**Subject:** Shepherds

Beckett,

Do you believe in coincidences? It seems we have just missed each other in Poland, seeking out the Shepherds! It so happens that I was able to uncover just what happened to them - namely, a certain friend of Boney M's.

Back across the Atlantic for you, I'm afraid. I'm staying in Rio, at a club called The Week. Be careful - the population here enjoy ritually hunting newcomers. It may be best to exercise discretion and stay somewhere not connected.

I hope to see you soon.

Sascha

-

 **From:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
**To:** eu.insumi@schreckNET.nod  
**Subject:** Re: Shepherds

Who the hell is Boney M?

-

It's chaos in the club.

Beckett can practically _feel_ the music pounding in his skull, more tactile than auditory; amongst a sea of beautiful young men, he's feeling overdressed and out of place. He's been keeping his eyes peeled for Sascha since he had arrived, but he rather suspects they blend in a bit better than he does; every glimpse he manages to get of someone who looks like they could be Sascha has, thus far, ended in disappointment.

His questions have lead nowhere, combined with the fact that he's really not sure what Sascha looks like now, exactly. By the time he's ended up at the bar, he's questioned another dancer, been mistaken for a bear (which is odd indeed - his preferred form, after all, is a wolf), been cussed at in Portuguese, and given up, turning to the bar to order something to at least pretend to drink.

"So," he starts hopefully when the bartender hands him his beer, "I've been looking for someone -"

A pair of slim arms slip around his waist. Against the shell of his ear, the murmur, "Stop harassing the kine, Beckett," is suddenly, shockingly loud even against the music.

Beckett grins and promptly abandons the drink, turning in the loose embrace and immediately being pulled into a kiss. "You're starting to make a habit of having me run after you," he murmurs when he can finally bring himself to draw away, giving Sascha a once-over. "You look good."

He had been right - Sascha does fit in well with the other clubbers. They still look, more or less, the way they had in the Caymans, but with a softer and more androgynous affect to them; their features are still fine, but more delicate and - there is no other word for it - pretty, compared to classical handsomeness. Glancing down, the change of shape to their body is subtle - a curve to their hips and a dip inwards at their waist, all the more exaggerated by what he can't help but notice is a very tight combination of black midriff top and pants.

Sascha manages a smile, and now Beckett is drawn back to their face and the calm there, the turmoil he had seen so often at Ameirin's all but gone. "I'm doing better," they say with a modest shrug, "As well as I can. Come with me to the restroom, we can talk."

He's almost surprised when Sascha slips their hand into his. Surprised, but still pleased, squeezing gently through his gloves as he's led away.

It's quieter here. Sascha steps back and scrutinises him, head canted to one side, long dark hair slipping over a bare shoulder. "How have you been?"

He shrugs. "Much the same as usual. I've been in Italy and Egypt - and Poland, of course. How much did we miss each other by?"

"A week." Sascha smiles ruefully. "I had already flown over when a contact mentioned you were there. Did you work out my little reference?"

"The Boney M one?" Beckett grimaces, trying to put it out of his mind just how much Okulos had laughed when he had asked. "They were a band, so I believe you were referring to a song. It's either Daddy Cool or Rasputin, and I'm going to assume it's not Daddy Cool."

"It was actually Ma Baker," Sascha deadpans. "No, you are correct - it was Rasputin. Not much is known of him, including his clan, but the evidence I've seen points -"

The door slams open, and Beckett starts, a drunk patron stumbling in. He has just enough time to hear Sascha's calculated, "Vamos trepar?", see the grin on their lips, and then he's being pressed against the wall and kissed like their unlives depends on it.

"Desculpe!" the drunk bleats, and hurries out again.

It was a distraction, Beckett thinks, but neither of them seem particularly inclined to separate. Sascha's deft hands untuck his shirt and roam his skin, leaves feather scratches down his back; they press against him like they're trying to map his body with their own.

Beckett breaks the kiss just enough for speech, his lips still practically on Sascha's as he murmurs, "He's gone now."

"I know. Don't care."

"No, neither do I." Beckett grins against their mouth. "Can I touch you?"

" _Yes_."

It's a delight to touch them. A pleasure to trace the line of their spine through those tight, tight clothes, to tease the sensitive bared skin, even through his gloves. Beckett longs to be free of them, to find Sascha's skin with his own, to indulge in the contact.

He feels almost cold when they finally draw apart, his own hair mussed and shirt in disarray, Sascha's lip gloss artfully smeared. They laugh when Beckett remarks, "We should try to get rid of people like that more often," posture loose and relaxed, feline grace in those limbs.

"Do you have a hotel nearby?" they ask, idly rubbing the smeared gloss off with one thumb.

"So we can talk without interruptions or so we can, er...?"

"Yes." The flash of a grin. "We _should_ talk about this, but, well..." There's something almost resembling embarrassment on Sascha's face, something Beckett finds more endearing that he really strictly should. "I have missed you."

"I missed you too," he says, and finds that he means it. "Alright. To the hotel it is."

They stop just long enough for Sascha to collect their backpack from the cloak room, a fluorescent-lit pit of blue light that casts odd shadows over the lockers and cubbies. Sascha pulls out a jacket and throws it over their clubbing gear, withdraws the bone ring from an inner pocket and loops it over their head, and shoulders the bag; Beckett follows them out, letting them navigate the tangle of hallways that make up the side rooms of the club.

The silence and cool of fresh air is like a balm on irritated skin after the club. Beckett breathes in deeply for the sheer enjoyment of it, almost jumping when Sascha slips their hand into his; he glances up into their face and finds their gaze determinedly fixed forward, tension in their spine.

It's still new. Still a developing thing, Beckett thinks as he leads them back to the hotel he's found. (Not perfect, but decent enough. The room's sole window faces another building; the curtains are heavy.) Still so many uncertainties in how they orbit each other.

Sascha only really relaxes once they're inside, the door locked securely. Beckett shuts the curtains and gives them a curious look, shucking off his boots and gloves, the coat he's been wearing despite Brazil's early March heat, the sunglasses. "Is everything alright?" he asks as he sets the glasses down, "You looked... uncomfortable."

Smiling wanly, Sascha discards their own jacket and boots, the fishnet gloves, the spiked wristbands. "Something strange is going on in domains as far north as Mexico City," they finally admit, "Not wholly connected with Rasputin alone - I believe he's actually currently in Caracas - although I've certainly come under attack from his supporters. Something is attacking the Cainites of South and Central America, and as far as we can tell, it's neither hunter activity nor some kind of blood curse."

Beckett raises his eyebrows. "There doesn't seem to be any dearth of Kindred in Rio."

"Which is why I am here," Sascha says grimly. "If something is targeting weak domains, I would rather be in a strong one."

And that, Beckett thinks, is disconcerting. Sascha is hardly weak, and for them to be compelled to hide... "Do you think it's something to do with Rasputin?"

A shake of the head. "I doubt it. Still, even if he is uninvolved, he clearly knows the continent. I've been tracking him for over a month, and something seems compelled to protect or conceal him no matter where he appears. I've been attacked by mortals, ghouls, even other Cainites, and they're all fairly quick to say they're ready to die for him, even after lengthy questioning." Something in Beckett's expression makes them raise their hands, defensive. "Not that kind of questioning. Well, a little of that kind of questioning. But generally only when they try to kill me first."

"I wasn't going to ask," Beckett says, shakes his head. "How were you keeping track of him?"

"He left quite a bit of vitae behind when we had our first altercation," Sascha says, and their tone is pointed. "More importantly, though, he has been leaving notes behind in each domain. They show a great deal of fear. He appears to have connection with some sort of brotherhood, and has been leaving missives for them - which I've been managing to intercept before they receive them."

They delve into their backpack, withdraw a ring binder full of scribbled notes and plastic sleeves. Out of one, they retrieve a handful of notes, written in spidery script; Beckett scans the first one.

_I performed as decreed in Lithuania and Poland, purging the line of Telyavel, driving our kind further into obscurantism. Yet, by chaperones were not here upon my arrival! If you read this, know I have moved on to the safehouse in Arequipa, to await your counsel._

_The Fiend known as Vykos is on my trail. They took exception to my European actions. I am confident I can lure them into a trap. There are many loyal to our brotherhood._

_G.R._

"Clearly," Sascha says, "I have not been trapped. And that in itself is concerning - he clearly expects significantly more support than he's actually getting. Something is targeting them, too." They grimace, hand rising almost automatically to the bone ring. "At any rate, I'm not leaving until I find him. The Telyavelic Tremere may have held the secret to killing Kupala and freeing my clan. Rasputin has been steadily destroying that chance as he destroys them and burns their libraries. I would quite like him dead."

Beckett remains still, silent. Sascha's last words are ringing through his mind. "I'll help you," he says, then, "If he's destroying information, then I'll help you."

Sascha's smile is strained. "I had a feeling you would understand."

Silence falls. It's not uncomfortable, but there's a distinct undercurrent of tension between them - the distance and the closeness warring for dominance, history and anticipation and the unknowns of the time they've spent apart. They're both seated on the bed now, and the space between them feels immense and minuscule at the same time. Finally, Beckett breaks it, smiles cautiously, asks, "How have you been?"

Sascha lets out a deliberate exhale. "Good, I think." They shrug, one-shouldered. "I travelled through Romania until a little after the New Year - I even managed to venture down to Brașov. The monastery is gone now, thank god. It was..." The faintest hint of a smirk. "Grounding."

Beckett laughs out loud. "I'm glad. Did it help?"

"Mm. More or less." They tap their nails against their calf, a thoughtful, pensive expression written on their features. "I've been reorganising with the Sabbat. Seeking out others who truly want to focus on preventing Gehenna and preventing the control and violence of our elders, instead of those focused on maintaining control over domain and committing casual cruelty. That was why I was trying to track the Telyavelic Tremere - if they knew the secret to destroying Telyavel, they could also know how to destroy Kupala. If we destroy Kupala, we free the Tzimisce from its influence. And I am so _sick_ of being used by elders!"

The last part comes out sharply. Beckett almost flinches, the passionate anger there striking. "You're not controlled by him any more," he says lowly; Sascha closes their eyes.

"I know. I know." Sascha exhales, manages a faint smile as they return their gaze to Beckett's face. "It's been... otherwise alright. I found a psychologist. You know Toreador and their empathy. I officially have a diagnosis of depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. Did some more travelling, mostly Ukraine, the Baltics, Poland. Considered visiting London. Strongly decided against visiting London."

Beckett winces. The ongoing kine attacks in the city have been a distraction for him, too; he nods once and gestures for Sascha to go on.

Sascha only shrugs. "There's not much else to tell," they say, shrugging open-handed. "I changed my look a little, though."

"Does it help?" Beckett asks, sincerely curious.

His answer is Sascha giving him a long, searching look, before a slow smile creeps on to those glossy lips. They cross the distance between them and Beckett has the sudden disconcerting thought that this is what it must feel like to be stalked by a big cat, intent on making you their prey; Sascha kneels between his legs and takes one of his hands.

"Why don't you tell me?" Sascha murmurs, pressing a kiss to the palm and then setting the hand, quite deliberately, on their hip.

A growl rumbles out of Beckett's throat, half from himself and half from his Beast, and he yanks Sascha close.

Each of their encounters has been different, he thinks muzzily as Sascha lets him explore their body with his hands and mouth. The first time had been something born from a desire to help alleviate a desire for hurt, the second had been a period of calm after that storm. The third had been for comfort, quiet and gentle and reassuring, the fourth, on the plane far above the Atlantic, had had a tinge of melancholy, a farewell ahead of them.

This is like none of those. This, now, in a hotel room in Rio, has a taste of desperation to it, of need and desire. It's been five months since they had last seen each other, five months since Beckett has realised that Sascha, for better or for worse, has a place in his heart; now all he wants to do is relearn the beautiful body beneath him, make Sascha cry out in pleasure, find release for both of them.

He has no doubt that his aura, right now, is shaded deep dark red. Probably Sascha's too, if the way they just can't stop touching him is any indication. He does not mind in the slightest.

There's no need to physically catch their breath, afterwards. Still, Beckett is content to lie there, a boneless Sascha wrapped around him like a blanket, their face pressed in the crook of Beckett's neck. They've both discovered that Sascha quite likes it when Beckett trails the very tips of his claws up and down Sascha's back, just light enough to offer sensation; he's fairly sure that if the Tzimisce could purr, they would be doing it now.

"You seem much more comfortable with being touched now," Beckett murmurs, mostly into Sascha's hair, and gets a nod in return.

"Mm. Not with everyone. I still don't like being touched much by others. But I trust you." Their eyes are still shut, expression calm. "It was the same with Ilias. We had -" They hesitate, just for a moment. "A bond. A mutual blood bond. I was always able to enjoy his touch - to long for it, even."

He's caught aback. Not sure how to feel about Sascha equating him to Ilias, who he knows Sascha loved.

Before he can work out what to say in response to that, Sascha continues, opening their eyes to gaze up at him. "And what of your lovers, Lucita and Anatole? Have you seen them since our last meeting?"

He winces, despite himself. "I've spent time with Lucita. Not a great deal, she's mostly spending her time trying to avoid being made Regent. Anatole..." The name, just for a moment, lingers on Beckett's tongue; he shakes his head, shakes Anatole out of his mind. "I haven't seen him."

Sascha moves, props themself up on one elbow to gaze at Beckett curiously. "Something happened between the two of you," they say, and it's not a question.

Slowly, Beckett nods. "We parted on bad terms," he says carefully, closes his eyes, lets the whole story of Jerusalem spill out. Of Anatole's departure for Jerusalem, his calm demeanour, no hint at what laid ahead. Of Beckett's ignominious arrival in Israel only to find no trace of him. The madness that had overtaken the city; the terror of the pit, the madness that had taken him, too.

Anatole's warning. His rescue by Serenna. The letter, the damned letter Anatole had sent, apology and confession both; how he had lured Beckett to Jerusalem so that Malkav would plant enlightenment within him like a noxious weed. How Anatole's betrayal burnt him like a brand and how Beckett had hated him; how he loved him still, worried endlessly that his oldest and best companion had met his end down there, in the dark, amidst the mad.

"I'm sorry," Sascha says quietly.

"So am I," Beckett says, and smiles bitterly.

Thoughtful silence, for a moment. "We've crossed paths, a few times," Sascha finally says, settling back against Beckett's side. "Most recently, around a hundred years ago. We were both seeking the Sargon Fragment. Well," they add sheepishly, " _I_ had been seeking the Sargon Fragment. Anatole had been sent by Constancia seeking _me_. Demons may have been involved. I believe Anatole may have taken offence at that."

Beckett blinks. "Demons," he repeats, voice and face carefully expressionless.

"I was going through some things."

He manages to hold his poker face for another three or four seconds before a laugh erupts, genuine and brightly amused. "Only you would call infernalism 'going through some things'," he says fondly, barely thinking about how bizarre this conversation would have been half a year ago. "Still, that is past, now."

There's still a lot hanging over their heads, waiting to fall. Rasputin, who has been killing scholars and destroying knowledge. The reemerging Trinity, back in Constantinople. Anatole, and the absence of him, and the question of what he will do if they ever cross paths again.

But this, right now, is good.

"It's nearly day," he murmurs into Sascha's hair. Oh, he's enjoying Sascha's hair - touching it, stroking it, playing with it. Vaguely, he wonders if he'd be able to braid it, given his claws. "We should sleep. You said Caracas?"

"Unless he's moved again." Sascha seems more relaxed, if nothing else; the tension of earlier has faded away. "If so, we check the safehouse, work it out from there."

"It's a date," Beckett says, and grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eu insumi = Romanian for 'myself'  
> Vamos trepar? = Portuguese for "Shall we fuck?" yes this is literally what Sascha says in BJD. Icon tbh  
> Desculpe! = Portuguese for "Excuse me!" / "Sorry!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: body horror and mild gore (not real), misgendering (also not real), depression, possible drowning triggers?

This is a dream.

Sascha knows that it's a dream, for they have never stood with their sire like this, side by side on a balcony overlooking Constantinople and the Bosphorus spilling into the Marmara. They wear their current shape, so like their original form but touched with androgyny, clad in tight jeans and a loose sweater, a ring of bone on a cord around their neck.

Symeon seems to take no notice of Sascha's altered appearance. His profile is reflective, thoughtful; the elegant lines of his patrician features almost glow in the moonlight.

"My childe," Symeon murmurs, and his dark gaze flicks in Sascha's direction. "You have been away from my side for too long, Myca."

"My lord sire," Myca murmurs, and steps closer to Symeon, lets his sire's arm wrap around his shoulders and draw him in. "I am here now."

Symeon turns to him, cups one cheek with his hand; Myca's eyes flutter shut. "You are here. And you are mine."

In Oradea, now, in Myca's own room in Symeon's sprawling Byzantine home. The two of them tangled together, Myca's legs wrapped around Symeon's hips to draw him deeper in, stealing kisses where he can, letting Symeon's hands wring pleasure from his body. His eyes are shut, all of his senses focused on touch and sound and scent; wood smoke and lemon oil, grave-earth and fresh, clean lavender.

Symeon splays one hand over Myca's chest, over the scars, and suddenly his hands are ice cold.

"You are mine," Symeon murmurs, and the softness of the bed becomes ice-cold marble. "Mine."

The skin under Symeon's hand splits, and the smell of vitae fills Myca's senses. The smell of vitae, and the pain, the pain of being reshaped and remade by someone they loved and trusted beyond all others.

They can't fight it. They can't cry out. They can't make it stop. All Sascha can do is scream in their mind, try to fight the agony of Symeon's hands parting muscle and bone, as he wraps his long, elegant fingers around Sascha's heart and _squeezes_.

"You are mine," he says.

Sascha's Beast roars against their skin. "I killed you," they finally manage to say, the words coming out a bloodless whimper. "I killed you."

"No," Symeon says, and laughs, and digs his fingers into Sascha's heart. "You consumed me, my poor foolish childe. You made me a part of you, Sascha, drew my soul into yours. You are contaminated with me. You are _mine_ \- mine, and _his_ , and you always will be."

There is golden light washing against their eyelids, radiance that leaves dread and ecstasy in its wake. Sascha's eyes open now, almost involuntarily, and finds the angel seated beside them on the marble slab, gazing down at them with a beatific smile.

"My architect," Michael smiles fondly, and caresses their cheek, dances his fingertips through their tears, traces their bottom lip with his thumb. "I eagerly anticipate your return to my side."

Symeon, still buried to the wrist in Sascha's chest, glances across at Michael and nods. Pulls Sascha's heart free with the ease of plucking an apple from a tree, holds it out to him.

Sascha can only watch, bathed in the angel's glory, as Michael accepts their heart and cups it in both hands, holds it up to inspect the organ, still red and glossy with blood, beating feebly before him.

The faintest scent of linden blossom and cinnamon, buried beneath the smell of blood. Sascha turns their head to the side, sees Ilias and Beckett watching quietly, calmly. Watches as they both turn away, walk away from the desecration before them.

Michael smiles down at Sascha. Raises their heart to his lips, and sinks his fangs in and drinks deep.

Sascha wakes with a start, shivering as the dream fades. It's not the worst they've ever had, rather average in its imagery and execution, the horror almost mundane in its commonality. Logically, they know this, that this is a nightmare born from their own fears and anxieties - their fear of being abandoned to their fate, of the trust they had misplaced in their sire, of the very real fear of Michael's continued existence and the sway he continues to hold over them. They know this.

Their body hasn't quite got the message, the Beast distressed and angry in its fear, raging against the fatigue of daylight. _Ground yourself,_ the gentle voice of their psychologist reminds them calmly, _Place yourself in the here and now._

They can do that. They know how to do that, now.

_Five things you know. Use 'I' statements, make them about you and your current situation._

_I am Sascha Vykos,_ Sascha tells themself. _I am seeking Rasputin for what he did to the Telyavelic Tremere. I am in Rio de Janeiro, in Brazil. I am in a hotel room. I am with Beckett._

Four things they can hear. The sound of traffic outside the hotel room. A soft cooing noise that Sascha has to take a moment to recognise as the sound of pigeons. Air conditioning exhaling through the ventilation ducts. Murmurs of conversation in the halls outside the door.

Three things they feel. The softness of high thread count cotton sheets. A tongue of cool air against their skin. Beckett, curled up like a literal dead weight against their side.

Two things they smell - cigarette smoke, lingering on their clothes from the night before. Vitae, from where they've bit their lip bloody in their panic.

_One more thing you know. One thing to tell yourself._

_I am safe. For now, I am safe._

The Beast allows itself to be calmed, lulled back to sleep. Sascha closes their eyes, and follows suit.

When they next wake, the sun has slipped below the horizon, and Sascha can rise with the full alertness of night. Beside them, Beckett is stirring; eyes still shut, he offers them a smile.

"Sleep well?"

Sascha makes a wordless little affirmative noise. "No worse than usual."

Beckett nods, pushing himself up and yawning in a way that strongly reminds Sascha of big cats. They hide a smile.

"So, we're bound for Caracas next? Cesare won't be happy, we only just landed in Rio," Beckett says with a laugh. "Perhaps we should fly out in the morning - time it so we arrive in Caracas just after sunset."

Sascha nods, pushing themself up. "If Rasputin's ghouls or human followers catches wind of our arrival during the day, he may be ready to move by the time night falls. If we arrive at night, we can set after him straight away."

"Exactly." Beckett grins, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. "Can you look up what time the sun sets tomorrow in Caracas? I'm fine with email, but..." With a sheepish smile, he waves a hand.

"You realise I'm significantly older than you, right?" Sascha says pointedly, but takes the phone anyway, grimacing at the notification at the top. "I hope Vitel is paying your phone bill, you've had Roaming on the whole time."

"What's Roaming?"

"You're hopeless." It comes out fondly. Sascha tries not to think too much on that. "Around quarter to seven. Flying time is supposed to be about ten hours. If we leave around nine, half past nine in the morning, we'll get in shortly after. I suppose we just seclude ourselves away before sunrise."

Beckett takes his phone back, sends a message. "I'll let Cesare know, he'll enjoy having the night off before we go flying after Boney M references." Text sent, he turns to Sascha again, and this time his smile is a little more careful, cautious, perhaps hopeful. "What shall we do with our evening, then?"

"Well," Sascha says thoughtfully, "Have you ever been to Copacabana?"

"In fairness," Sascha says, brushing sand and ash out of their hair, "How was I to know there was a werespider with a taste for vitae in the city?"

Beckett grumbles, whipping off his glasses to clean the smudges of ash and spider goop off the lenses. "I'm just saying, next time we go for a relaxing night swim, maybe we should look for somewhere not so secluded."

Sascha snickers, shedding their boots. "Fine. Next time we can make ominous shark noises around the kine. I'm claiming the first shower."

"We could always share," Beckett suggests with a grin, "Given that our swim got cut short?"

For a moment, Sascha hesitates, then shakes their head. "Maybe later," they murmur, and duck into the bathroom before they can see disappointment on Beckett's face.

Shedding their clothes with mechanical efficiency (was that spider goop burning a hole through their shirt? That wasn't a good look), Sascha switches on the hot water, steps into it with a sigh. This early in the morning, very few others at the hotel are using the hot water, and they have the time to indulge, let the heat warm their flesh and wash away the filth of the evening.

What must Beckett think of them?

Sascha knows they're not the easiest to get on with. Quite aside from centuries of bad blood between them, even their present self can be... difficult, they know. They can be temperamental, moody in a way that horrifies their previous sense of restraint, before and after their... change. Before, the control they held over themself had been long ingrained; after, it had been a consequence of their actual self buried beneath layers of the Other.

They've got out of practice. They're too visibly emotional, now. They show their whole hand, at far too early a point in the game. They let their emotions make decisions for them, even when a calm facade and agreeability is the more diplomatic choice.

They hadn't wanted to invite Beckett in because they didn't want to be touched, because they were feeling so oversensitised over the last night that they didn't know what to do. It's natural enough, they suppose, going for nearly eight centuries without affectionate contact, never wanting to let someone that close, let themself be vulnerable.

The Caymans had been a balm to their desperate touch-starved body, discomfort and fear warring with simple need. Beckett wore his humanity close to his skin, and touch from him was communication; he had shown care and concern in every gesture.

They had left. Roamed the lands of their birth, had slowly weaned themself off that contact. Had managed it for months until their worlds had collided again. And then there had been yesterday morning, and then there had been waking up in his arms that evening, and now their skin is burning, skittish like a cat, wishing to be petted then getting overwhelmed, finding it _too much_ , and sinking their fangs in.

And not in the fun way.

Sascha sighs, switches off the water and wrings out their hair. They'll be in close contact with Beckett for at least a little while longer - maybe they'll be able to work out what the hell to do around him by the time they finish in Caracas.

If nothing else, they need to work out where things stand, quickly, for what will come after.

Towelling off and gathering their things, they step back into the hotel room, cool air-conditioned air a sudden contrast to the steamy bathroom. "The shower is free," they murmur, immediately delving into their pack for a change of clothes suitable for Caracas, slipping the bone ring back over their head.

Beckett murmurs something. The bathroom door shuts, water starts.

Dressed and packed (aside from the spider-goop-covered shirt, they'll have to discard that somewhere), Sascha settles back against their pack with a sigh, tracing the lines of the ring. They had never minded being touched by Ilias, had they? They had sought him out, even when they felt at their worst, at their most uncomfortable in their own skin. But there had been trust between them, unconditional and unwavering; they had known wholeheartedly that Ilias would not hurt them.

(In the worst of their nightmares, it's Ilias reaching for them with cold eyes.)

And they simply don't know where things stand with Beckett now. A lover, certainly, but what kind? There is a world between 'lover (an encounter in a garden, bodies joined, bringing each other pleasure; a one-off enjoyable fling)', and 'lover (Ilias, the other half of their soul)', and they have no idea where Beckett fits in on that sliding scale of intimacy.

Important to them, certainly. But only Ilias had held that highest position, and Sascha has to admit, if only to themself, that letting Beckett anywhere near there is deeply frightening.

If Ilias does still live, what will he think to see them again? They couldn't simply pick up where they left off. Not given how they parted. Would he remember the circumstances of his presumed death? Would he have any idea how his body had been used to destroy them?

Myca Vykos had died that night. They had continued to use the name for centuries longer, but Myca had died as Ilias had, their bodies entwined, their souls burning to ashes.

The water shuts off; the bathroom door opens again, Beckett striding out in his towel. Sascha schools their expression into one of calm, offers him a smile. "It's almost five. When should we set out for the airfield?"

"Half an hour?" Beckett shrugs, digging for a change of clothes. "It won't take long to reach it, we should be in by six."

Sascha nods, going over their things again. "Fine. You should probably pack," they add, raising an eyebrow; "How did you manage to make such a mess in such a short period of time?"

Beckett laughs, looking over at the papers and books spread out over the table, a few stacked on top of the bulky television set. "I suspect my belongings have discovered the secret to reproduction," he says, voice light, buckling his belt with a click. "You may as well help me tidy."

"This is all a scheme to get me to do your chores, isn't it?" The grumble is more or less good-natured, though, and if Sascha happens to read some of those fascinating papers and notes as they clean, that's simply the nature of the task. Beckett, at least, is happy enough to talk about his travels and discoveries, and Sascha is happy to listen; they find, much to their surprise, that they're _enjoying_ having the back and forth exchange of words and minds, their shared interests.

It goes smoothly, the trip to the airfield. Check out of the hotel early, let the kine at the front desk assume they have an early flight to catch (which, after all, they do). Cab to the airport. A quick, quiet trek to the field where Beckett's plane awaits, stowing their luggage, settling in.

A few minutes to sunrise. They've locked themselves in, safe enough, ready for Beckett's ghoul to take off in a few hours. Enough time to talk a little about tactics, once they arrive in Caracas; enough time to get comfortable, for Sascha to carefully insinuate themself closer, letting themself settle in the relative security of Beckett's embrace.

_I am safe. For now, I am safe._

The sun rises, and they sleep.

"We work well together, I think," Beckett says.

Sascha laughs out loud, swishing their bare feet in the warm Caribbean waters. "I must admit, it was amusing seeing you play the Bad Cop." They grin, poke at his shoulder. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Beckett huffs. "He was destroying information!"

"Still, isn't there a joke in there about mad dogs and Englishmen?" Another poke again, this time at Beckett's newest body parts. "Don't worry. It looks cute."

Beckett's new wolf ears flick at the touch. "I hope these aren't permanent," he grumbles. "Hats were fine in the forties, but they do get rather odd looks these days, and I'd look terrible in a beanie."

"Well, we _were_ just in Rio. Perhaps one of those fruit hats?"

There's a sloshing sound as Beckett kicks sea water in Sascha's direction, drenching the hems of their jeans.

They only snicker at the scandalised expression on the Gangrel's face, the fluffy white wolf ears not helping in the slightest. "Drama queen."

"Smug git."

"Furry bait."

"What's a furry?"

"Search for it online. I strongly recommend having Safe Search on."

Beckett's eyebrows raise. "You know, I think I'll just let that one be."

Sascha smiles, lets it go. Lets the peace of the moment sink into their bones, because nothing that will come next will be easy.

They didn't get the answers they wanted from Rasputin. It's okay. He is at the mercy of the Drowned Legacies, now, and Sascha can keep looking, seeking answers, seeking freedom. And for now, they can sit on a dock in the Caribbean, bathe their feet in its waters, try not to smile too much at the way Beckett's wolf ears prick at the sound of sea birds.

"You know," they say idly, trailing a foot against the current, "We never did get that swim."

"Because we nearly got eaten by a werespider," Beckett points out drily.

Sascha waves a hand. "That was Brazil. This is Venezuela." Before they can second-guess themself too much, they stand, shedding their clothes, tucking the bone ring safely in their jeans pocket. "Come on!" they say, and jump in.

The water is gloriously warm, smooth against their skin. Sascha closes their eyes and lets themself sink into its depths (well - its shallows, the water here is only three or four metres deep), fish darting around them, the world becoming small and comforting in the cocoon of water.

Breathing in, drawing the ocean into their lungs and out again, its tide and flow.

A splash, and Sascha opens their eyes, smiling closed-lipped to see Beckett join them in the water. He's still holding his breath by long instinct, and Sascha draws seawater in and out again, shows to Beckett the safety of it, to embrace what gifts their inhumanity has given them.

"It's okay," Sascha mouths clearly, and watches as bubbles drift upwards from Beckett's lips as he struggles to let out the air in his lungs.

It feels unintuitive, doing this. A Cainite may grow used to the lack of breath, but to actively reject it, to let your lungs fill with water, can spark a primal fear beyond that of the Beast.

The Beast doesn't care. It is as inhuman as the body it wears, and drowning holds no panic for it. It's purely human, that fear; Sascha holds a hand out for Beckett to take and invites him to reject it, to join them cross-legged on the sand, metres of ocean above their heads, the moon making the water milky.

Beckett's laughter lets bubbles drift from his lips.

Sascha has spent too much time over the last few months, over the centuries, wondering what it means to be human.

What did it mean, to be human, to be Cainite, to find where the line between the two was? They had long since come to terms with their nature, even in their earlier years; they they had once been a living, breathing human and now was none of those.

They had still been a person, more or less. They had still been Myca Vykos, scion of their family, magus by birth, Cainite by the choices others had made. The Dracon had made them something else, erasing every trace of the person they had been, to become a monster, to strive for Azhi Dahaka, and...

Now he was gone, and Sascha was what was left.

And it's been months, and they still don't know who or what they are, exactly. Still don't know what remains of their mortal life or their first, immortal one, the one that had existed before the Dracon, the one that they had believed to be their own.

They had been pulled in so many directions, then. They had been a pawn on the chessboard of Jyhad, played by Symeon, by Michael, by forces Sascha couldn't and wouldn't acknowledge. And they still don't know if they're free of them now, if they'll ever be free, but -

They can try. They can only try.

They know this:

They are Sascha Vykos. They are a Cainite of the Clan of Dragons. They have been broken, but not irreparably.

They have the power and potential to cause tremendous pain, but no longer feel the need to, to turn internal pain into external, to destroy others so they no longer felt the urge to destroy themself instead. They love to learn. They _need_ to learn, to make the world make sense, to find a place where they can belong, where they can be happy.

They want to be safe. They want to understand and be understood. They want to love and be loved.

Sascha leans in, presses their lips against Beckett's, then pushes water out of their lungs and kicks their way to the surface. Treading water, they tilt their head back and gaze up at the moon, and when Beckett emerges into the air as well, they reach for his hands.

"Back in the Caymans," they start softly, "In the library, you said that you would help me. That I wouldn't have to look on my own. Does that still hold true?"

Beckett nods once. "It does."

Sascha swallow, squeezes Beckett's hands in their own. "Then - it's time. It's time to find Ilias."


	3. Chapter 3

**From:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
 **To:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
 **Subject:** NYC Resident

Dear Aisling,

Wondering if you could look up a current resident to NYC for me? His name is Elias Athanasios, Toreador, Greek. He's done some exhibitions at the AFA, including some artefacts of note. If you're able to get a hold of him, let him know I wish to talk to him?

If you're able to do this for me, I may be able to get hold of some interesting information re: what's under the city.

Sincerely,

Beckett

\- 

**From:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
 **To:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
 **Subject:** RE: NYC Resident

Beckett

You're in luck. He was preparing to leave the US in a week, but I've persuaded him to stay until you meet with him.

Is this information to do with one of Athanasios' artefacts, or something along those lines? You know exactly which one I mean.

Aisling Sturbridge

_"I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better."_  
Maya Angelou

-

 **From:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
 **To:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: NYC Resident

Aisling,

'Or something along those lines'.

Thank you! It's much appreciated.

Beckett

-

**From:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
 **To:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: RE: NYC Resident

Has anyone told you lately that you're infuriating?

Any time.

Aisling Sturbridge

_"One cannot step twice in the same river."_  
Heraclitus

-

 **From:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
 **To:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: RE: RE: NYC Resident

Aisling,

Many! :)

Beckett

-

New York City in March is significantly gloomier than Caracas.

The signs of spring are there, at least. The ground is bare of snow, and tiny buds adorn the trees. Still, there's a chill in the air that not even the heat of a city can totally erase, and Beckett has a sudden and fervent wish to be back in the Caribbean.

If nothing else because Sascha's anxiety is starting to make _him_ anxious, too.

They are to meet Ilias - 'Elias', to the rest of New York's Kindred population, Elias, the Greek Toreador with the fascinating gallery of artefacts - the next night. For now, it's four in the morning, they've taken temporary haven in an apartment above a tacky-looking occult shop Aisling has directed them to, and Sascha has devolved into a puddle of stress.

Thankfully, not literally.

They look up when Beckett approaches, hunched more or less in a ball in one of the armchairs. "Tremere," they mutter, and Beckett can practically _hear_ the sneer even if their expression is blank. "You said this place belongs to Sturbridge?"

Beckett makes an affirmative noise, trying to find a way to join Sascha in the armchair, failing, and settling for flopping himself down on the floor instead. "She says it's usually for more advanced apprentices starting to set out on their own. It's convenient enough, I suppose." He glances up at Sascha, expression bemused. "I expect you don't think much of Tremere."

"That's a complete stereotype. Also, it's true." Sascha grimaces. "What's worse is that I nearly _was_ one."

Beckett chuckles at that. "I was nearly a Nosferatu. A friend of mine, Okulos, was Embraced in Oxford as well, in similar circumstances. We have often wondered what would have happened if I had had the Nosferatu sire, and he the Gangrel."

Sascha raises their eyebrows. "Oh, no, this goes beyond the Embrace," they say, tone heavy like a confession. "In my mortal youth, I was a mage of House Tremere at Ceoris. A good one. Etrius confirmed to me once that I was a likely candidate to join the Council, in which case I would have become one of the first of Clan Tremere."

Beckett blinks.

"Of course," they continue wryly, "Goratrix hated and envied me enough that he tried to arrange to have me murdered by the local Tzimisce. And you know how well that worked out."

There's a pensive expression on their face now, enough that Beckett figures it's probably not the best idea to try to pry. There's likely trauma there - he's starting to understand that's a running theme in Sascha's life - and if they want to tell, that is their business.

He'll just... have to bite his lip and suppress the questions he desperately wants to ask.

Sascha sighs, shakes their head. "It still all comes back to him," they say quietly. "Everything, in the end, comes back to Ilias."

"Your being House Tremere comes back to Ilias?" Beckett says, and frowns.

"More or less." They quirk a wry smile. "My Embrace was done in spite on two fronts. My family was prominent within the Transylvanian Carpathians, and I often travelled on behalf of the Tremere to arrange for new, local chantries. Goratrix let my movements slip to what he thought were the local Tzimisce, only for the information to end up in the hands of a group led by one of the Draconian line from Constantinople. And the Carpathian and Draconian Tzimisce loathed each other with a passion, thanks to a long-ago blood feud." They shrug, but there's nothing casual in the gesture. "Symeon recognised my lineage. He thought it would be great fun to Embrace a native Carpathian into the Draconian line, and in doing so spiting both them and Goratrix."

"And did you have any say in this?" Beckett says, and frowns.

Sascha laughs. "None whatsoever. I woke to find myself covered in grave soil, one of my servants dead at my feet with his blood all over my face, was duly removed to Constantinople, and threw myself into study to escape the horror of my own existence. And... I got used to it."

Another shrug, but this time it's a little more at ease, more resigned. Beckett doesn't reach for them, but he does lay his hand over the arm of the chair, within grabbing distance, if need be.

Sascha smiles, but their expression is still faraway. "I got used to it. I became a scholar of all I could learn, and I became a citizen of Constantinople of the Draconian line. But my Embrace had been out of spite, and I... reacted to that. I reached back towards the mountains of my home. Began correspondence with two of the Carpathian Tzimisce my bloodline told me to hate but my birthright told me I was a part of. And when Constantinople fell, we fled, back to the mountains." Another silence. Heavy. "One of my companions, Velya, introduced me to Ilias during a springtime celebration. I fell for him the moment I saw him. Against all odds, he reciprocated. We were happy, for a time."

They cut themself off there hard; Beckett can see Sascha's throat work as they swallow hard. Wordlessly, Beckett offers them his hand, and Sascha hesitates for a moment before accepting it, sliding out of the armchair and sinking against his side.

There are no tears here, no breaking down, no open displays of emotion. Just the comfort of contact, pressed together shoulder to wrist, little fingers linked in the very barest hint of clinging.

Softly, carefully, Sascha says, "What if he's not the same? I'm not who I once was. What if he isn't, either?" They cling to the ring so tightly Beckett fears, for a moment, that they'll crack it. "The evening I woke up to find a stranger in my lover's body was the worst of my life. What if I lay eyes on him, and find myself looking at someone else?"

And he has no answer to that. No reassurance. No way he can say that it will be fine, because in every likelihood, it won't be.

Anatole had been a different person after scarcely a few months in Jerusalem. What would eight centuries do to Ilias?

"I suppose," he says, straining to find anything, anything he can say to give comfort without giving false reassurance, "You can only take each moment on its own. If he's a very different person, then you decide if that person is still someone you want to know. I don't know."

Sascha laughs hoarsely. "We may be two irredeemably broken people. What a fine pair." They close their eyes, drop their head to Beckett's shoulder. "Did he seem alright when you met him? Was he happy?"

Beckett nods once, recalling the unexpected gentleness of the Tzimisce. "I have nothing to compare to - and I was rather, ah, all over the place during our encounter," he adds with a short laugh. "But the impression I got was someone who had great calm in himself, and some kind of... vitality, I suppose. A brightness."

A quiet little sigh. "It does sound like him. He had that vitality when we first met - it was the first thing that drew me to him." Sascha is silent a moment more, then straightens up, turns to look at Beckett properly. "And if it is him, and he's willing to resume our relationship, what happens between us?"

There's a furrow to their brow, a look of consternation. Beckett considers them for a moment, tilting his head to one side. "Have you ever been in a relationship with more than one person before?"

Sascha, slowly, shakes their head. "Ilias is the one true relationship I've been in. We were both still physically intimate with others - well, with Ilias' role as a Priest of Jarilo, he could hardly _not_ be - but we were not..." The hesitate, mulling the words over almost visibly. " _Emotionally_ intimate with anyone else."

The implication, honestly, is an intriguing one. Beckett has, more or less, come to terms with the fact that Sascha has wormed their way into his heart (thankfully, not literally); that their relationship has gone from rivalry (if not outright loathing) to something else entirely. Still, he doesn't know how _Sascha_ views whatever it is between them, if those months apart have changed anything.

'Emotionally intimate'. He doesn't know what connotations lie beneath those words, how, exactly, to classify whatever it is between them.

"I can only approach this from my own perspective, I suppose," he eventually says. "You know that I am involved with Anatole and Lucita. I was the newcomer to that relationship when we met - they had loved each other for many centuries before I was even born. Their relationship is unconventional, but it's genuine - not romantic or even sexual, but they are platonic soulmates nonetheless." A faint, strained smile. God, he misses them. "And Lucita has another love of her own. Fatima. We've met a few times, and I consider her a friend, but we're not lovers ourselves, despite our mutual relationships with Lucita."

Sascha frowns. "And this works out? You do not envy this Fatima?"

Beckett shakes his head. "No. Her relationship with Lucita is its own thing, as is Lucita's relationship with Anatole and with me." He hesitates for a long moment, until the pain in his heart subsides enough to speak, and quietly adds, "And I had another love, many years ago. Emma. Even long after her death, I still hold her in the highest regard. Even then, though, she wasn't a replacement for what I had with Anatole and Lucita - just an addition."

A sigh. Sascha returns to their previous position, their head on Beckett's shoulder; he can't quite resist the urge to turn and press a kiss into their dark hair. "If Ilias is indeed still himself," they say quietly, "I fear I will lose something. And it's something I've come to cherish, that I don't _want_ to lose. I -" They cut themself off, brow furrowing as they struggle with the words. "How I feel about Ilias - I would want to resume our relationship. But I don't want to lose what I already have."

_Something I've come to cherish._ His chest heavy, Beckett finds Sascha's hand, squeezes it. "Do you mean whatever it is between us?"

A nod, wordless.

"You won't lose me." Beckett smirks, breaks the heavy emotion laying over them, adds lightly, "I'll stick around like a rash. Just try and get rid of me."

_I've got in too deep now. I'm emotionally invested. How the hell did that happen?_

It takes a long, long time for Sascha to speak. When they do, it's barely audible. "If I was to start again with Ilias, and I felt my feelings for you dwindle in response, I would want to remain friends."

Beckett opens his mouth, then closes it. For once, he can think of nothing to say, nothing whatsoever. The implications are racing through his mind - that Sascha has feelings for him, that Sascha considers him a friend; six months ago this would have seemed like a bad joke, and he's still no more used to the idea than he was when it was new and barely formed back in the Caymans.

Friends? He wants to stay friends with Sascha. He wants them in his life, in whatever form that may take. Was he not feeling so adrift at the chain of events, he would be cherishing this new addition; as it is, he can't find the words but knows enough that his Beast is growling _keep_ and _protect_ and _mine_.

He says none of this. Silently, he nods.

Sascha studies him for a long, long time, then draws him into a kiss. "Come to bed with me?" they murmur, holding a hand out for Beckett to take; he lets himself be led there, lets Sascha take the lead, pushing him back against the sheets before clambering atop him to press another searing kiss to his lips.

It feels like a last time. Like a farewell. Like a part of Sascha has already decided to slip away from Beckett and to return to Ilias' side, and that this is one last indulgence; their hands roam over his body like they're trying to memorise him.

It doesn't have to stop, he wants to say. A new start doesn't mean an ending.

He doesn't say it.

Blood is burning in their veins. There's heat between them; Sascha's hands are brands, leaving an indelible impression on Beckett's flesh. And he's left his own marks, he thinks. The inevitable physical marks from his claws, scratches like calligraphy in red ink, written on the pale canvas of Sascha's skin; emotional marks, in the way Sascha gazes at him like they're trying to read his soul.

_Something I've come to cherish_ , they had said. Had they meant what Beckett had thought they meant? Had the nature of their relationship changed so much, from enmity to acceptance, from teeth-clenched teamwork to companionship? Had hate become love, then?

He doesn't ask.

It's never been straightforward between them. There's never been a clear-cut, easy answer. And that's okay, because Beckett has always thought that clear-cut, easy answers are boring, not something worth expending energy over.

He's finding it quite different when it's his heart on the line. When the tangle of emotions between him and Sascha threaten to snag and choke them both. 

How did they end up like this? He keeps asking it, and he doesn't think he'll ever actually have an answer that satisfies him. It's not something he can consciously analyse, not like old books or ruins or relics. He's fallen into relationships based on instinct and intuition, and that has, for the most part, been fine.

But now whatever exists between him and Sascha is something he needs to handle with care, like the most delicate fragment of ancient parchment, or he risks causing irreparable damage.

To both of them, probably.

Sascha kisses him when they're done, hands cool and still against Beckett's hips. There's disquiet in their expression, the very justifiable fear of whatever the evening holds visible on their face, and Beckett reaches up to brush away a strand of dark hair.

"Tonight," they say softly, "When we do meet, don't go far. Just in case."

Beckett nods wordlessly.

Sascha's eyes close. "I don't know who or what I'll find there. I don't know how he survived, because I saw him die. I _felt_ him die. The one you met - the way you describe him, it does sound like he used to be. But I don't know what I'll actually find there." A frustrated, hollow laugh. "I suppose I am half expecting to find the Eldest in his form. I don't know what I would do, if that was the case."

"I won't go far," Beckett says, because it's the only part he can actually promise.

A soft sigh. "I miss him," they say simply, burying their head against Beckett's shoulder. "Everything about him. His smile. His quicksilver laugh. The smell of linden blossom in his hair." Their eyes slide shut. "His intuition, the way he always seemed to know precisely what I needed to bring me comfort. The way he would listen when I needed him to and distract me when that was what required instead. The love he held for everyone. Everyone. He loved so much."

Beckett's heart lies heavy in his chest. "You really loved him," he murmurs.

A nod. "I could never say it," they whisper, and it's with the weight of approaching daylight bringing all the grief and regret of the past. "He knew, but I never said it. You don't know how much I hate myself that I never could say it."

Wordlessly, Beckett nods. Lets his arms wrap around Sascha's shoulders, lets them slip into sleep together, entwined together, a possible ending on the other side of the sunset.

_I love you,_ he thinks.

He doesn't say it.

Half past nine, outside AFA Gallery.

Sascha's hands are shoved in their pockets, their shoulders hunched defensively. Every inch of them looks like they want to flee; instead, they only look from Beckett to the door and back again, swallow hard, nod once.

Beckett taps the code Aisling had got off Ilias into the keypad, and the back door clicks and swings open.

He takes the lead, lets Sascha linger behind him, half uncertain if they'll actually still be there if he glances back. Stepping inside to a back room, a little kitchenette, bathroom off to one side, store room on the other.

"Ilias?" he calls, stepping forward. "It's Beckett. Aisling Sturbridge said you'd be in?"

"In here!" comes a cheerful call from the main gallery space, "Come on through!" Beckett glances back (oh, he notes, Sascha is still there after all) and exchanges a nod with them, pushing the door open.

Ilias is much as he remembered - a golden youth, a warm smile. He's dressed, tonight, in garb appropriate for a gallery, more up-market and darker in colour than the simple linens he had worn beneath New York; dark blazer, silk shirt in jewel-toned paisleys; white jeans and a skinny scarf. Jewellery adorning his ears and wrists, fingers and throat.

Beckett smiles. "It's good to see you."

"And you too, my friend," Ilias says, and his voice is warm and genuine. "I hope you made a quick recovery after everything."

A nod. He has no doubt Ilias' blood helped substantially in that regard. "I did. Thank you." A deep breath, and he starts, "I didn't just -"

"So what did you -" Ilias says at the same time, then laughs, waving a hand. "I'm sorry. You first."

This is, Beckett knows, the point of no return. He draws in another breath. "I'm afraid I didn't just want to come in to discuss artefacts," he says, "Although I'm very happy to do that at another date. I wanted to bring someone here."

He turns. The door to the back room clicks open, almost audibly hesitant. Sascha slips into the room, their expression stricken.

The pen Ilias had been holding clatters to the floor.

"Ilias." Sascha's voice is soft, uncertain. They look like they want to flee, perhaps almost did.

The smile spreading across Ilias' face says so much, even to Beckett, even to a relative stranger. Stunned surprise, disbelief and joy. Fear. Love. So much love that he's drowning in it. "Myca," Ilias whispers, and takes a step forward. "Myca."

Sascha's gaze flicks to Beckett, then back, resolutely, to their lover. They take a step forward, stop. "Beckett," they say, and their voice is still so quiet, so lost. "Could you give us some privacy, please?"

He nods. Begins to retreat to the back room, to shut the door behind him and hope that it doesn't shut off everything between them in the process.

"Beckett," Ilias echoes, and smiles. "Thank you for bringing him back to me."

"You're welcome," Beckett says, and closes the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Trauma, discussion of past rape, abuse, manipulation, brainwashing, and the rest of Sascha's frankly horrific backstory, mentions of torture and murder, mention of past child abuse

Three metres and seven hundred and seventy-two years span between them.

It feels unreal. Sascha can't stop _looking_ , soaking in each and every detail, Ilias' face so familiar it feels like coming home.

They just wish they weren't so _afraid_.

Ilias is the first to speak, breaking the silence with a soft word and a tender smile. "You look good," he murmurs, slipping back easily into Romanian, the archaic form they had both used in their earlier years before it had truly been called 'Romanian'. "I see you got my ring. I - how have you been?"

"How are you here?" Sascha says helplessly in reply, and their gaze slides away like Ilias is too bright to look at directly; like if they don't look away, they'll be blinded. "I saw you die. I felt it!"

The smile on Ilias' face grows sad. "So I did die, after all?" he murmurs, and nods like it makes sense. "I thought that may have been the case."

"I don't understand." Just saying the words is galling.

Still that same sad smile. Ilias crosses the floor, takes a seat on one of the benches and pats the spot next to him, and Sascha approaches like he's magnetic, their feet feeling leaden with apprehension. Ilias smiles again, holds out a hand to draw them down -

Sascha flinches.

There's the span of a heartbeat, and Ilias' expression slides from quiet melancholy to confusion to heartbreak. "Myca," he says, sounding like his heart has broken, "What happened to you?"

The spike of terror that had struck Sascha at the sight of Ilias' extended hand, so similar to Ilias-who-was-not-Ilias drawing them down to their own personal hell, slides away like water. Sascha crumples to their knees, laying their head on Ilias' lap, and lets the tears come. Lets themself weep like a child waking from a nightmare, seeking some gentle hand of comfort; indeed, Ilias runs his hands through Sascha's hair, soothing and calming even through his own tears.

Both of them look rather worse for wear when Sascha finally lifts their head, pushing themself up to take the seat beside Ilias before he can offer that damning hand again. "You died," they say, and their voice sounds exhausted even to their own ears. "Please, tell me, how are you here? What are you?"

Ilias turns away, stares at his hands. "I'm not sure, precisely," he says quietly. "Do you remember Sarmizegetusa?"

Sascha's brow furrows. "Damek Ruthven. Yes. We spent some months there, searching for -" Evidence that Nikita was indeed descended from the Dracon. They almost laugh, bitterly, at the irony. "Searching for answers."

"It was barely a week for me." Ilias smiles sadly. "I had been following a hunch. Looking up the lineage of Velya the Flayer. Did I ever tell you what I had found?" Sascha nods silently; Ilias nods in return and presses on. "I see. I am not certain, because after I had learned that, I found myself unsettled and unsure, following a feeling. I found... a temple, I suppose. It had a tree within it, and in that tree was the Eldest."

Sascha hadn't ever known. They hadn't even realised what Ilias had found that night, only that it had left him weakened, barely able to stand on his own feet even after Ruthven had given him a servant to drain dry.

The Eldest. This had been where the connection had been made, in December of 1233, in a temple of Sarmizegetusa.

"And then," Ilias continues, and his smile is small and sad, "Three years ago, I found myself here, in New York, with the Eldest beginning to truly wake into full consciousness. It had been alone, you know. And it had remembered me from Sarmizegetusa. I suppose..." He hesitates, just for a moment. "It recreated me from the memories of the true Ilias. I'm sorry, Myca. I remember being Ilias, but I'm not the real thing. I'm a memory, that's all."

Sascha closes their eyes.

Then this Ilias is a construct. Something recreated by the Eldest, a union of fleshcrafting and memory. He looks like Ilias, acts like Ilias. Talks like him. Remembers being him.

But he's not him. Ilias is dead, truly dead.

Sascha hunches in on themself, curling their fingers into their hair like they want to rip the thoughts out of their head.

"I do remember something else," Ilias is saying, though, and Sascha stops, stops and listens. "Fragments, really. Rising from sleep beside you in the oriel room. Malachite is there, and a stranger. I remember..." There's a hesitation. "I remember killing the stranger. My hand through his chest. I remember facing someone, kneeling before him, knowing it was pivotal. I don't know who it is." He glances askance at Sascha. "I remember you and I together. Malachite was there. I am not at all sure why." He looks bemused, shaking his head; Sascha realises with an almost physical pain that he has not the slightest inkling what a violation he's witnessing.

"You're seeing through the eyes of the Eldest," Sascha says, the words tasting like ash. "When I awoke that evening, you were no longer yourself. I don't know how, or why. But I looked at you and saw a stranger. I saw the Eldest in your skin. And you destroyed me."

It's unfair. It's so desperately unfair, that they should have to be the one to tell Ilias what sins his body had committed. So unfair that the Eldest should recreate him and never tell him what he had done.

Ilias looks quietly stricken, but Sascha can't stop, won't stop until Ilias knows the truth. They feel an immense need to force the words out, tell this parody, this copy of their lover what he had done, to shut the door between them so they can run and never look back.

Sascha turns away.

"It was October. Ten months after Sarmizegetusa. You only lived another ten months after that. We had learned the truth - that Nikita was not Nikita, that he was truly the Dracon. We returned to the monastery to find all dead at his hand. We sheltered in the oriel room, and when I awoke, you were no longer yourself. That was who you knelt before - he was the Dracon."

Pressing their nails into their palm, drawing blood. Ilias exclaims, moves to catch their hand; Sascha pulls away from the touch.

"He wanted to die. The Eldest did not permit him to do so. The Eldest transformed him into liquid, consumed him, transformed his essence. The Eldest forced his essence upon me. Raped me, using your body. You did not survive. I became something... else." A hand, pressed over the scars marked indelibly over their heart. "We both died that night. It's only been five months since the Dracon's essence was ripped out of me, and I'm trying to keep going. I don't know how long I can."

Beside them, Ilias is weeping.

_He's not Ilias,_ Sascha tries to remind themself. Tries to push all sentiment away, to curl into a cold, hard ball and never let anyone close again. _He's not Ilias._

Sascha turns to not-Ilias and embraces him. Clings to him like they can't bear to let him go again, because even if he's not Ilias, he is _so much_ like him that it makes Sascha's heart ache, and he's hurting, and Sascha cannot bear to be the cause of his pain.

"I'm sorry," Ilias whispers, again and again. "I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't you," Sascha says, and tries, tries not to think of the lie there, because it wasn't _Ilias_ but it _was_ the Eldest, and what sits before him is a fragment of the Eldest itself, imbued with Ilias' memories.

"I may as well have," Ilias says shakily. "I cannot bear the thought that the sight of me could bring you pain. I want to be your comfort, my flower, not your tormentor."

It's too much. The pain in Ilias' voice. The familiar nickname. Sascha turns to him fully and presses their lips against his, pulls him into a kiss that still feels like coming home even after seven hundred and seventy-two years.

Ilias practically throws himself into Sascha's lap, clinging to them like a lifeline. They're grabbing on to each other in desperation, need, so much of it Sascha can barely think, just knowing this: _Ilias. Ilias is here._

And they don't know, not for sure. But god, he feels like Ilias, reacts like him. Melts into Sascha's arms like him. And Sascha has missed him, longed for him for so, so long; their reservations lie abandoned in the face of being able to put that hurt and loneliness aside for the first time in a very, very long time.

They part, eventually. Rest their foreheads together, Sascha's eyes closed, drawing on that closeness and familiarity and need. Gently, lovingly, Ilias wipes the tears from their eyes.

"I've missed you," Sascha says, and it comes out as an uncertain whisper. "More than I could bear. I had to bury that pain deep down, you see. He would not let me mourn you."

"The Dracon," Ilias murmurs. "If my wards had held..."

Sascha shakes their head. "Nothing you could have done would have stopped him. And even if they had, the Eldest -" They cut themself off, sigh. "We were caught in the middle, tools for their use. You most of all. I was the Dracon's descendent and I inherited his sins, but you were an innocent who was swept up in it. Ilias, I'm sorry."

Ilias kisses them again, apology and forgiveness both. "Myca," he murmurs, then stops himself. "No, you're Sascha now, aren't you? When I woke, I looked you up; at one point, history stopped talking about Myca Vykos and started talking about Sascha Vykos."

"Myca died the night you did." Sascha's smile is pained, and they reach up to rub at their eyes. "But yes, I am called Sascha now. I..." A hesitation. "I can be Myca again for you. If you want me to."

"Do you prefer being Sascha?" Ilias tilts his head in genuine curiosity, and Sascha shrugs, discomforted.

"I think of myself as Sascha now, I suppose. Although," they also add, wincing, "Sascha has committed many acts that Myca would cringe away from. Perhaps it would be better if I _did_ become Myca again."

Ilias sits back, studies them, and his expression is pensive. "I had heard stories," he agrees quietly. "Many I didn't want to believe. Mass murder. Torture. Your name, over and over, drenched in blood and fear. I find myself hesitant to ask, I think, how much of it was you and how much was not."

Sascha looks away, dropping their gaze to at their hands. Clean, clear skin, nonetheless stained with the blood of so many others.

"I don't know," they finally admit. "I wonder if it _is_ as clear as that, being one or the other. Perhaps it was my intellectual curiosity and his desire to lash out at the world that combined to create a monster."

"Many would call me a monster too," Ilias says gently, and Sascha's gaze snaps up to meet his, to see the sad smile there. "Look at my aura."

Sascha's brow furrows, but they still nod, peer into the gap between seen and unseen. Then, they blink. Whatever emotion Ilias is feeling is almost hard to tell, given how stained his aura is with the tell-tale black veins of diablerie; they wince as they pick out the depth of silver behind it.

"Ilias -" they start, then halt there, unable to find the words.

Ilias finds the words for them. "When the Eldest recreated me," he explains, and his voice is quiet, "I believe it made me - like its own childer. Like the methuselah. I was normal, before. Now I am compelled to satisfy my thirst on others of our kind."

"I'm sorry."

It's cruel. Cruel, to make gentle Ilias hunt down and kill his own, simply to survive.

"I've tortured many," Sascha adds, quietly. "And made them live with it. I am... very good at it. I know precisely which nerves to stimulate to cause someone agony. I know a hundred thousand and one ways to make someone scream."

Ilias meets their gaze fearlessly, but their expression is still troubled. "I am told," he says quietly, "That there is no worse agony than being consumed, to destroy someone's very soul. It is the worst sort of desecration. And I have done it to many, now."

"You were trying to survive."

"And do I have that right to do so at the expense of others? I am an incomplete Sinner, because I find myself constantly asking: is my life worth more than theirs?"

" _Yes_!"

Ilias raises an eyebrow. "You can't know that," he argues, shakes his head, lets a small, sad smile creep on to his face. "It may seem odd for one who followed the Road of Sin, but I follow the Path of Nocturnal Redemption, now. I have hurt many, Sascha. I can't let myself be unaffected by that. I _must_ make it better."

Sascha gives them a long, searching look, then drops their gaze with a sigh. "I will not believe that you need to redeem yourself for doing what is needed to survive," they say simply. "And I wonder, then, what you must think of me, of my own deeds."

There is no immediate answer. Sascha does not blame him in the slightest. They know their history is soaked in blood, that there are history books talking of Sascha Vykos, _cruel and sadistic_ , or Sascha Vykos, _torturer_ ; Sascha Vykos, _monster_.

If Ilias sees himself in desperate need of redemption for simply trying to survive, how can he even bear to look at Sascha?

"There _is_ something I wondered about," Ilias starts carefully, not quite meeting Sascha's gaze. "I read that - you consumed your sire. And I questioned why, because in the memories I have, you loved him."

Sascha closes their eyes, and a laugh, unexpectedly, bubbles from their lips. Perhaps it is because there is already so much hurt and confusion permeating their being, but the words come easily. "Ah. Yes. Those dreams I had - the terrible dreams I kept waking up from -" Ilias nods, acknowledging them, knowing Sascha had never spoken of them but unable to stop from noticing - "I learned what they were. They were memories from shortly before the fall of Constantinople. Symeon drugged me and fleshcrafted me into a copy of the Dracon, and Gregorius Dimities obliterated my mind beneath the knowledge that I _was_ the Dracon, sent to Michael to be his comfort in his last days. Michael knew I was not his love, but he used me nonetheless, and at the time, I loved it and loved him. It was only after that I was able to recognise that I had spent weeks being repeatedly raped. Symeon erased my memories of those nights, but he did not do a good enough job. I remembered the full extent of it when I woke the evening you died."

There is naked horror on Ilias' face. "Sascha," he whispers, his voice cracking just on those syllables, "I - he had no right -"

"No," Sascha says, and stares at the floor. "He didn't."

"I don't blame you. Not in the slightest. He deserved death for betraying you thus."

They smile, and it's flat. "I still dream of him, that I made a dreadful mistake in consuming him and now his rot exists within my soul. I suppose that is part of why I am like I am. Ilias, I _am_ sorry. Myca has been dead for a long time."

"Frankly, if you hadn't already consumed him, I would have instead." Ilias kisses them again, quiet like a breath, then draws away and gives a despairing laugh. "Look at us. Two dead monsters. What a fine pair we make."

Sascha laughs again. (They think they may be a little manic at this point.) "I am being completely unironic when I say that you declaring that you would consume the soul of my sire for his transgressions is one of the most romantic things I've heard you say." This is ridiculous. _Ridiculous._ "Thank you, I think."

Laughter, more laughter, and it's bright, genuinely amused. "This is by far the strangest conversation I've had in a while, and I have been in regular communications with an Antediluvian," Ilias giggles, and leans into Sascha's side. Automatically, Sascha closes their eyes, rests their cheek on the crown of Ilias' head. "I have a haven downstairs. If you want, we could retreat there instead... if you want," he repeats, almost anxious.

Sascha nods once. "We should tell Beckett first. But - alright."

It's Ilias. It's _Ilias_. Their reservations have fallen well into the background, abandoned in the knowledge that here, at least, is their lover, their heart; that here is an answer to their loneliness and pain.

"Mm, yes," Ilias says, and straightens up, kissing Sascha's cheek. "I liked Beckett when we first met. Are you and he lovers?"

Again, Sascha nods. "It's something new," they say with a shrug, "And still hard to define. But he has been good to me. He was the one who helped with -" A hesitation, and they press their palm compulsively, again, over the scars. "The Dracon."

Ilias makes an affirmative sound. "You can tell me about it," he promises, and stands when Sascha does. Something in his gaze softens. "I'm glad he has been able to help you."

Sascha smiles, helplessly, and follows Ilias to the door leading to the back rooms.

Beckett is still lingering there, staring at his phone, brow furrowed. When the door opens, he glances up, seeks out Sascha's gaze immediately; they nod minutely.

_It's okay._

"Beckett," they say, leaning against the door frame, "I am going to spend the rest of the night with Ilias. We have a great deal to catch up on."

Seven hundred and seventy-two years, Or, three years. Both different worlds entirely.

"Of course," Beckett says with a nod, "Take as much time as you need. You know where I'll be if anything comes up, and -" he holds up the phone - "I'm only a call away, although I can't guarantee I won't accidentally put you on mute."

Ilias peers at the flip phone, then nods, his smile sunny. "Just look at the screen display if you do. It should indicate what button to press to unmute it."

Sascha smothers a laugh, turns to Ilias, and adds, just to see what kind of delightful expressions they can get out of Beckett, "I'm impressed that you effectively went from the thirteenth century to the twenty-first but still know how to use a phone."

A graceful shrug from Ilias; only Sascha’s intimate knowledge of Ilias’ expressions reveal the mischief behind the catlike smile. "Of course. Doesn't everyone?"

Beckett drops his head into his arms and groans out loud; it sounds, more or less, like the words, "Fucking Tzimisce."

Still desperately trying not to laugh at Beckett's technological ineptitude, Sascha moves to his side, rests a hand on his shoulder. "It went well," they murmur, and squeeze, gently. "Thank you."

The smile Beckett returns is genuine, tinged with something Sascha does not want to acknowledge. "I'm glad," he says, and straightens up, bowing his head at them. "I'll see you later, then. Ilias, I would not be opposed to looking over some of your collections, if you have the time."

"Of course," Ilias smiles, and waves him off.

The path to Ilias' haven takes them through the door into the upper store room, then down an old spiral staircase into the larger storage area below. Off to one side, mostly hidden by crates, is a solid metal door; Ilias enters a key code and it clicks open, revealing the room inside.

It bears little resemblance to a store room. The walls are still solid cinder block (covered with scarves and decorated fabrics as they are) and the light above is clearly fluorescent, but it remains switched off, the room instead illuminated with lamps casting a rosy glow over sumptuous fabrics. A screen blocks off a small sitting area, desk (complete with laptop), and bookshelf from the bed further in, and rugs muffle their footfalls over the concrete floors. There is the scent of something floral; Sascha spots the fresh flowers in a vase atop the bookshelf, a few blooms artfully scattered beneath.

It's cozy, comfortable, but still secure. Very Ilias, even if he never had lived to see the advent of electric lamps, much less laptop computers.

"What do you think?" Ilias says, a note of anxiety in his voice.

"It's lovely," Sascha says honestly.

"It doesn't have an attached bath." Ilias sounds almost embarrassed. "I wash up in the employee restroom down the hall, if necessary. But it's safe, and the internet connection is fast, and it has ready escape." He kicks up a corner of one of the rugs, revealing a hatch that presumably leads into the sewers or the like. Now, less embarrassed and more hesitant, he adds, softly, "This was how I reached the Eldest, before it left."

Sascha stares at the hatch. "Nothing can come up, can it?"

"Not from this side, no."

They nod, briefly reassured. The writing that Beckett had done on the hellscape that laid beneath New York was enough to make them never want to encounter what laid down there.

Ilias takes an unnecessary breath. "I would give offers of hospitality," he says, almost nervously, "But - this can be your place too, if you have need. Or - or we could find elsewhere, if... you want." His voice trails off, and he shakes his head. "I'm sorry. It's only been three years for me, but it's been so much longer for you - and that's not including the almost-year you had with the - the other me. I suppose I have been acting under the assumption that you would want to simply pick up where we left off."

Wordlessly, Sascha nods, pulling the desk chair out to perch on it like a bird half an instance from flight. "I hadn't thought that far. My first goal was to see if you did indeed still exist," they admit. "I never considered what might come after. It was only five months ago that I even realised that I _could_ have a future that wasn't drenched in the blood of others. Before that, the Dracon - I'm not saying he controlled me. I was able to carry out my own actions. But his influence was... significant."

They're rambling. Uncertain. Wanting to get the words out so that there are no ambiguities, no misunderstandings, even if those words drive Ilias away. They do not want to lie, be anything other than themself, for Ilias to look upon a fabrication and choose to love it instead.

Sascha knots their fingers together. Stares at them. The black polish is chipped on a couple.

Ilias' gentle hand lays over their own.

"We can decide later," he says gently. "We can recall the past, or determine the future, or - right now - simply embrace the present."

They nod wordlessly. Relax their hands, lifts Ilias' own hand to their lips, presses a gentle kiss against the knuckles.

Ilias gazes at them wordlessly for a moment, then pulls Sascha to the bed.

It's been an infinity since they touched him last. Too many years, too much pain and blood and loneliness. And it's not like Sascha has been chaste all that time (they had been intimate with Beckett only that morning, after all), but too much of it had been tinged with the give and take of power and control. Too much done solely to burn away their loneliness, to leave _something_ in its place; too much for all the wrong reasons. Even with Beckett, there had been desperation there, hunger, need; it had been good in the end despite, not because of, how they had started.

But this is Ilias, who they trust beyond all others.

Who they love.

They don't leave the bed, after that. They spend the hours until sunrise talking, remembering. Gentle moments from the life they had shared, cautious recollections of times apart. Questions that get quiet answers, questions that don't have answers yet. Explanations. Understanding.

Ilias explores the scars over Sascha's heart where the Dracon was ripped from them, presses kisses against them to soothe any lingering hurt. Sascha traces the whip scars over Ilias' back from his mortal boyhood, shields the perfect skin beneath with their hands like they have done so many times. Physical scars, and mental, too, the hurts and bruises on both their souls carefully, tentatively laid before each other.

They fear the rising of the sun. That they will awaken that evening and find themself alone again, Ilias only an illusion after all or worse, that he has examined Sascha's soul and found it wanting, the taint of blood and torture and pain too much to bear, after all.

The worst part of all: they would not blame him.

_Don't leave me,_ Sascha thinks, only realises they murmured it out loud when Ilias raises his head from the pillows to press a gentle kiss against their lips.

"Never," he murmurs, and pulls Sascha close as the sun rises.


	5. Chapter 5

_[PRIVATE - NOT TO PUBLISH]  
Ty's Bar, New York City, United States_

_It's been a while since I've been in Greenwich Village, I think the last time was in the 1980s. Ty's is still reassuringly the same, at least._

_I admit I don't quite know what to do about Sascha. ~~I also have to admit, even to myse~~ ~~I believe I am star~~ ~~I haven't fallen so hard since Emm~~ The dynamic between us is complicated, to say the least, and Ilias' return has made it even moreso. If Sascha does opt to end things between us to resume their relationship with Ilias, how can I possibly begrudge them that? And of course, that's not what I want, myself._

_Of course, the easy answer is to have never to enter this peculiar relationship in the first place, because no doubt my life would be simpler if I hadn't. If I had let them die in Constantinople. Of course, 'easy' doesn't mean it's something I would have wanted. Damn it all, but I like being around Sascha._

_Six-months-past Beckett has been stunned into aghast silence right now, I suspect._

_I don't know. I hope this reunion goes well, for their sake. I hope they're able to be happy. I hope there's still room for me after. ~~I hope Anato~~_

_Well._

_I'm going to grab a bite to eat, then find something - anything - to distract myself with._

-

**Calebros [number redacted]**  
 **B:** This is Beckett. Would you have a moment to meet with me vis a vis The Thing Beneath New York?  
 **C:** how the fuck did you get this number  
 **B:** From Okulos.  
 **C:** how the fuck did OKULOS get this number???  
 **B:** Anyway. Shall we meet somewhere?  
 **C:** jfc  
 **C:** yeah yeah fine ok. Will send you coords for the nearest warren entrance to your location  
 **B:** Of course.  
 **B:** Wait.  
 **B:** How do you know my current location?  
 **C:** :)

-

**[RECORDING BEGINS]**

**Beckett:** How much vitae have those rats had, anyway?

 **Calebros:** Believe me when I say you don't wanna know. Glad you made it in one piece.

**Beckett:** More or less, anyway. You received my email after my last visit to New York, yes?

**Calebros:** Yeah. Goddamn, but that was not a pleasant read.

**Beckett:** Mm. No. The implications are... worrying.

**Calebros:** My clanmates were eaten by an Antediluvian and he says _worrying_.

**Beckett:** On the plus side, it wasn't the Nictuku - or, heaven forbid, Absimiliard. I feel that if he was active again, the Nosferatu would have been more specifically targeted. The impression I got from my contact was that the Eldest was merely... hungry. Or lonely. One of the two.

**Calebros:** Yeah. On the other hand, at least if it was Nictuku, we'd have a chance against them. How the fuck do you fight a lump of flesh, even if it's not sentient any more?

**Beckett:** A flamethrower?

**[A SOUND LIKE TIRES SCREECHING]**

**Calebros:** Anyway. You say your contact was... close to this thing?

 **Beckett:** As far as I can tell. He spoke about it in rather familiar tones.

**Calebros:** Tzimisce?

**Beckett:** Mm-hmm.

**Calebros:** Can you trust him?

**Beckett:** I think so. We have a mutual friend who spoke highly of him.

**Calebros:** Huh. Well, hopefully you can get back in touch with him and ask what the fuck is still down there. You realise we're still losing people?

**Beckett:** I've heard. I suspect that without any kind of intelligence behind it, what remains is just mindlessly feeding. Like a very large wight.

**Calebros:** God. Maybe the fucking flamethrowers aren't too bad an idea.

**Beckett:** If you have any information on where people have disappeared from, it'd help with mapping out the extent of this thing. Then we can start making some proper plans for its... is 'destruction' still the right word here?

**Calebros:** Eradication, maybe. Like getting rid of a plague.

**Beckett:** It does seem an apt analogy.

**Calebros:** I'll get you the data. You get whatever you can out of this contact.

**Beckett:** Deal.

**[RECORDING ENDS]**

-

_ Temporary haven, New York City, United States _

_Clearly whatever is under the city is still active, if Calebros' reports of continued disappearances are accurate. I've also been in contact with Aisling, who has confirmed the same. Ilias seemed certain during our last meeting that whatever remains is mindless, although I suspect that will simply make it all the more dangerous._

_Intelligence can be reasoned with. Communicated with. Mindless hunger cannot._

_A speculation - Ilias has been collecting objets d'art that are in fact items of significant occult status and power. It's possible we may be able to make use of these._

_If not, there's always my flamethrower idea._

-

Beckett rises that evening with the vaguely disquieting sensation that even if he had had a fairly productive night, he's still not exactly happy.

Yes, he had managed to get in contact with Calebros, started to work out precisely what was happening beneath the city. Calebros had since sent in reports gathered over the months, disappearances, sightings, and other oddities, and Beckett had spent the small hours of the morning sketching out a map of the extent of the horror's reach.

It was... intimidating, really. He had drifted off to sleep when the sun had risen with the feeling that there was simply not enough space between him and what laid beneath.

It's been a distraction, at least. Working through a problem at hand has been a marvellous method for not thinking about Sascha, even if he knows they will likely be involved in the coming conflict. If nothing else, Ilias' expertise will be absolutely essential, and he has the feeling that where Ilias goes, Sascha too will follow.

Beckett has been rather determinedly not thinking about just what shape the dynamic between the three of them will take. Still, eventually, he sighs, reaches for his phone. Sends a text message, asking for entrance to the gallery.

He gets a reply a little too quickly for his liking, carefully neutral and stripped of meaning. Beckett stares at his phone in consternation, then sighs, sets the map, his notes, and the diary in his satchel, and starts for Soho.

Sascha is waiting for him when he arrives, leaning back against the exterior wall of the gallery, beside the door. When Beckett meets their gaze, they offer him a cautious smile.

Beckett returns it, almost automatically. "How did it go?"

"Well, I think," Sascha shrugs, glances at the ground, props one booted foot up against the brick. "He seems much the same."

Beckett frowns, because from the tone of their voice, that is not necessarily a good thing. "If I may ask," he says carefully, "If he truly did die, then how did he return?"

Sascha stares, stares, stares at the dirty ground. "The Eldest recreated him. We - a good ten months before those events took place, we visited a place called Sarmizegetusa. Ilias had an... encounter there, I suppose. An immense tree, with a dreadful presence inside. From my perspective, he returned, and we continued living out our lives, and he died. The true Ilias, the original, he died."

"Then," Beckett says, slow and cautious, "What did we meet last night?"

"A memory," Sascha says, and their smile is sad. "Somehow, in that encounter, the Eldest... learned Ilias. Three years ago, it recreated him from its memories of that time. The Ilias inside - he's a physical form created by the Eldest, imbued with the memories of the real thing."

Beckett draws in a breath and exhales, slowly. "Are you alright?" he asks, voice low.

A nod, more a jerk of the head than anything else. "He's so like him," they say, and Beckett can hear the longing in it. "As far as he's concerned, he _is_ Ilias, albeit one who found himself transported from Sarmizegetusa in 1233 to New York in 2004. He remembers the years we spent together, he acts like him, he speaks like him. For all intents and purposes, he is Ilias cel Frumos, and he's alive again."

"But?"

"But he's a creation of the Eldest. And I can't bring myself to forget that. He's Ilias, and he's a part of the Eldest."

"I'm sorry," Beckett says, because he can't offer anything else.

Sascha smiles again, but it's faint and distant. They turn, enter the code in the door, open it up. "We should talk," they say, and lets Beckett into the quietened gallery.

No waiting in the kitchen this time, at least. Sascha leads him up the stairs to a lounge area where Ilias sits waiting, jumping up to greet him as soon as he spots Beckett emerge through the door, his expression open and friendly. He's dressed more simply this time, simple linen pants and a loose floral-print t-shirt, still adorned with jewellery and barefoot like a bohemian.

He's a part of the Eldest? Beckett can barely imagine it. There's still so much liveliness in those merry amber eyes.

They sit, Beckett in an armchair that's so overstuffed he feels like he's sitting in a marshmallow, Ilias and Sascha side by side on the sofa. Beckett can just see Ilias bump his hand against Sascha's, curling their little fingers together, and something sharp settles beneath his ribcage.

"Ilias," he starts, "I was hoping you could tell me more about what lies under the city."

Ilias nods easily. "Do you know the story of the Eldest's supposed diablerie?"

"I've heard stories of it."

Another nod; Ilias gestures to Sascha, who blinks. "You were there," he says, "I was not. You tell this bit."

Sascha raises an eyebrow, but nods nonetheless. "The diablerie was a ruse. Lugoj, one of the clansmen I had been a longstanding companion of, led the battle against what we had learned was the Eldest's haven, guarded by Lambach Ruthven. What we observed was Lugoj departing for the inner sanctum, and then returning with the means to dispel the protections around the Eldest. He proceeded to diablerise it, and fell into torpor."

"I learned the truth when I was... brought back," Ilias says, and presses on: "The Eldest had subdued Lugoj and assumed his form instead, created a construct, posed as Lugoj and proceeded to consume 'himself'. Lambach alone observed the truth, and when the Eldest fell into torpor, it was Lambach and the Szantovich Revenants who brought him here, to what would become America." He shakes his head. "It's muddy, what happened, over the centuries. The Eldest underwent... a process of change, I suppose. It sought to become the Azhi Dahaka, a state of perfect metamorphosis."

Beckett starts, straightens up. Sascha meets his gaze and nods once. "Just Tzimisce things, I suppose," they say ruefully.

Hiding a smile, Ilias nods. "You remember what I told you? It was lost, for a long time. It was hungry, and it was lonely. Lambach served it as best he could, but his mind was... damaged. It wanted a companion." The smile becomes strained. "It chose me. I - or rather, the original Ilias - had encountered the Eldest long ago, and it... well, it remembered me. That was three years ago, and in that time, it bade me to learn about the world, bring back information. Stories. I became Elias Athanasios to the Cainites of New York, and started my collection. Items we might use. Information we might need."

He stops there, glances at Sascha almost nervously. Now, he drops his gaze, addresses his next words to his knees, his body still turned towards Sascha enough to indicate who the words truly are for.

"I had hoped it would pique your interest, I suppose." Ilias shakes his head. "But it worked out, nonetheless."

"So it seems," Beckett says, busying himself with collecting the notes and map he's made. "I spoke to Calebros last night - we've been working out the extent of the, er, remains. It's still hungry, and people are still vanishing. We should probably do something about it."

It's better than sitting and talking about relationships. He has no idea where things stand right now, and is fairly certain he doesn't want to ask. Ameirin had said that he had sought answers no matter what, no matter how painful the answer is; now, he feels that description couldn't be further from the truth.

Ilias, however, is frowning, his expression distant. "We should, because it would mean keeping everyone in the city safe," he says, then stops, shakes his head. "But, um, there is one rather significant complication."

Beckett frowns. "What is it?"

Those slender fingers are knotted together with anxiety, his knuckles white even against the pale skin. "I don't know if I would survive it," he blurts out, and lowers his head. "I don't know how much separation there is between me and -" He waves a hand, gestures downward. "What's left. If it's destroyed, I might go with it. The Eldest made me out of the same stuff, you know."

The expression on Sascha's face is pained, brow furrowed, lips pressed together. "If it's just the fleshly remains," they say carefully, "It should... be disconnected, shouldn't it? You're independent now. You have your own mind. Don't you?"

_Please,_ Beckett knows Sascha wants to say. _Please tell me you're free._

"I don't know," Ilias says, and his voice is soft. "I'm just a memory. The thing is, one of the alternatives is worse - if my body does survive the destruction of what's below, it could be because the Eldest designed me that way. It could be that it didn't just recreate me as a companion, but as a fail-safe."

Sascha reaches for Ilias' hands and does not let go. Their head is bowed, hair loose, shielding their face from view.

Beckett straightens up, looks between the two with a frown on his lips. "Sorry," he says, "But what do you mean, a fail-safe?"

Ilias meets his gaze, and Beckett feels his throat tighten. Those eyes are so old and so young at the same time, so full of life and death. Duality in physical form. "The Eldest," he says, quietly but clearly, "Is a true immortal. Should it face the destruction of its body, it will be reborn in one - in _anyone_ \- who carries its blood. It happened once, destroyed by the Salubri Samiel, and reforming as an embryo in -" There is the slightest pause, a flick of his gaze to Sascha - "The body of one of its childer."

The Dracon. Beckett doesn't even have to ask, doesn't need to question why Sascha's hands tremble around Ilias'.

"So as long as the Tzimisce survive," Beckett surmises, a twisting unease in his gut, "The Eldest can be reborn?"

Ilias shakes his head. "Anyone who carries its blood. _Anyone_. And fine, our clan is not the most widespread. Do you know who are? The Tremere, who ripped immortality from the bodies of our clanmates. Do you know who are also widespread? The Sabbat, and their habitual vaulderie. Anyone who has so much as even _tasted_ Tzimisce blood could become a carrier."

"Ah," Beckett says, and the memory of the rich, sweet taste of Sascha's blood on his lips rises in the forefront of his memory.

"Exactly," Sascha says, their lips twisting into something vaguely resembling a smile. "If the Eldest was to truly die, then we would have to as well, to ensure it stays dead. _All_ of us."

"I don't think I like that idea very much." Beckett glances between them, frowns again. "What do you mean by a fail-safe? You didn't answer that part."

Ilias sighs. "If the Eldest was to die, it wouldn't choose to be reborn at random. The first time, it chose its most beloved childe as its vessel. Frankly, we don't know what kind of a state he's in now, and so it may choose the closest thing it has to its own flesh." It's almost unnecessary for him to say the next word, but still, Ilias meets Beckett's gaze, and says, "Me."

Sascha still hasn't let go of Ilias' hands. "But that's only if the Eldest dies, and we are not going to fight the Eldest. We're going after what's under New York. And if we go after this thing," they say, and their voice is almost even, "We need to swear something. If there is even the slightest chance that destroying it will hurt Ilias, we stop. Perhaps it can be contained instead of destroyed. Perhaps we build barriers and warn others not to go near it. But we don't sacrifice his life just to stop a few idiot Nosferatu from getting eaten."

Beckett gazes at Sascha, at the furious set of their jaw, the determination in their dark eyes. Unable to find a counterargument, he nods once.

Again, Ilias sighs, but this time it's less resigned, more frustrated. "My life is not worth more than oth-"

"Yes it _is_ ," Sascha snaps, not even letting Ilias finish the words. "If it takes the sacrifice of a few to keep you safe, then fine. Let them die."

There is a long, long silence. Ilias meets Sascha's gaze, and Beckett can feel the unspoken communication between them, the love, the fear, everything that comes with it. The centuries of loneliness, the desperation not to lose a loved one again; the mutual need, the unfairness of the whole damned situation.

Then, Ilias shakes his head. "The Dracon wanted to die. The Eldest refused, because its need for the one it loved to survive overrode everything else, including the wishes of the Dracon himself. In the process, people died. I died. You were violated in the worst possible way. All of this, because the Eldest would not accept the possibility of losing the one it loved."

Sascha draws back like they've been slapped, releasing Ilias' hands. Their lips press tight together, eyes wide and wild; Beckett can see dampness gathering in them.

"I can't lose you," they say, their voice cracking. "Not again. Ilias, _please_."

"You'll mourn me. Then you'll move on."

"No!"

Ilias sighs, reaches for Sascha's hands again and pulls them close. Forehead to forehead, he closes his eyes. "If I am willing to sacrifice myself to save others, I will do it. And you'll manage, because you are so much stronger than you've always believed you are. Because this time it'll be _my_ choice, not anyone else's."

Sascha's eyes flutter shut, a tear tracing a crimson line down their cheek nonetheless. "I'll find a way," they say, and it sounds like a vow. "I will. I'm not willing to give up on you."

"I know," Ilias says, opens his eyes, kisses the tear away. "I do not doubt you."

Beckett, carefully, gets to his feet. He's starting to feel like a third wheel again, like he's intruding in something well beyond him, something set in motion centuries before his birth.

"I'll visit libraries," Sascha says fervently, "Archives. Anything I can find. There _must_ be a solution somewhere."

Ilias laughs here, unexpected and bright. Says something in Romanian, something teasing that makes Sascha huff a laugh themself, a more subdued chuckle.

"Er," Beckett says, unable to resist the question even in the midst of trying to sneak out, "What?"

Ilias grins sheepishly as he glances up at him. "I'm not sure what the English equivalent is. Someone who reads a lot...?"

With a great deal more embarrassment, Sascha repeats the words. "Er, 'şoarece de bibliotecă'. The literal translation is 'library mouse'. I suppose the best English equivalent is 'bookworm'," they add to Ilias.

"Book _worm_ ," Ilias repeats, carefully neutral, lips twitching with a suppressed smile. "Hmm. I think a library mouse is cuter. And, of course," he adds, the little smile blooming into an actual grin and tapping Sascha on the nose, "My mouse is the cutest."

Beckett simply can't help himself. He laughs, more at the scandalised look on Sascha's face than anything else.

From unholy abominations beneath New York to library mice. The tension has eased, Sascha's vow made in love soothing over the horror.

"We'll both look," he promises, glancing between them. "If there's a way to do this and keep you safe, we'll find it."

And if not, he adds silently in a promise to himself, he'll help support Sascha's shattered heart in whatever form they want or need.

The tension has eased, but still, Beckett feels out of place, lingering on the edges, outside and looking in. "I should head off."

Sascha glances up and meets his gaze, a flurry of emotions crossing those dark hazel eyes. "Why?" they ask quietly.

Beckett shakes his head and turns, busying himself with packing the maps and notes back in his satchel, speaking more to it than to either of the Tzimisce. "Well, we've discussed our next movements," he says neutrally, "And I'm sure you still have plenty to catch up on. I shan't intrude any longer."

This is something he can't intrude in. Won't break it, not for his own selfish desires of his heart. If Sascha is willing to fight the world for Ilias, Beckett will not stand in the way.

He reaches for the doorknob, and Sascha sets a hand on his so swiftly Beckett is sure they must have used Celerity to reach him in time. "Stay a little longer," they murmur, sliding their other hand into Beckett's hair, and drawing him up into a lingering kiss.

_Oh,_ Beckett thinks, and gives in to it.

When they part, Ilias is smiling, those lively eyes bright, joining them by the door to claim his own kiss from Sascha - then, with the mischievous, testing demeanour of a cat seeing how many things it can knock off a table, pressing a kiss to Beckett's lips too.

Beckett blinks.

"I have a haven downstairs," he murmurs, twining his fingers with Sascha's, other hand resting, barely perceptible, on Beckett's arm. "With a nice big bed. We've dealt with enough pain and fear tonight. Let's go downstairs, work out where things stand between the three of us, and -" Another smile, his eyes darkening enough that Beckett is sharply reminded both of Ilias' status as a Priest of Jarilo and just what Jarilo was a deity of - "We can see how things proceed from there."

Unbidden, Beckett's gaze flicks to Sascha, and Sascha nods minutely.

There is a promise of answers below, and a promise of pleasure. Wordlessly, Beckett nods, and lets himself be drawn away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Self-loathing thoughts, discussion of torture, violence, discussion of manipulation, mild textual gore, references to Eternal Hearts I'm so sorry

_3:17 AM, 12th March 2007_

Ilias and Beckett seem to get on well.

They are in an involved conversation on the Omen War, Ilias relating his own experiences with Koldunic sorcery in the midst of the conflict. I am occasionally called to give contributions or clarifications, as I was more heavily involved in the political side; otherwise, I am left to my own devices to write.

I have not had the chance to be so thoroughly introspective in recent nights. Once, I wrote every evening upon rising. It is a habit I should probably resume. There is often quite a bit in my head, and I fell out of the habit after the line between myself and the Dracon became too blurred to distinguish whose thoughts belonged to who.

In retrospect, perhaps I should have continued, regardless of the ambiguity of who exactly was writing. If nothing else, it would be a good insight into the other.

Still, there is little use dwelling on impossibilities. What I _can_ write of now is the present, and the curious situation I have found myself in.

Ilias is here. It has been nearly eight centuries since this statement was true. _Ilias is here._ He is sitting perpendicular to me, leaning back against the wall, his legs slung over my own. Every so often, he will reach over, caress my leg or hand, offer me smiles of reassurance.

He is not the precise same person who died in my embrace those years ago. There are ten months we shared that this one never experienced; the Ilias who lived through those nights truly is gone. And this Ilias, too, is not made of quite the same stuff. This body was not born, was not Embraced by Dorinta; he did not use this blood and body to weave magics and passion.

But he is Ilias, nonetheless.

It amuses me, watching the contrast between him and Beckett. Ilias is and always has been expressive. He speaks with his hands in a manner more suited to Mediterraneans than Slavs, his expressions open and honest. He smiles frequently, laughs often. Beckett, on the other hand, tries to hold to English stoicism, communicating largely in facts and dry sarcasm. His hands are folded neatly with the fingertips tucked against his palms; it would look a little peculiar to wear gloves and nothing else, and as none of us have opted to rise properly and dress again, he seems to be doing this largely to shield Ilias from his claws.

(This is largely futile. Ilias was very much present when I was encouraging Beckett to rake those claws down my ribs. He even licked my blood off those same claws, leaving Beckett surprisingly flustered.)

I will go into no further detail on the physical side - some things are meant to remain private, even on paper. Suffice to say that it was a most enjoyable experience, having two exceedingly attractive men focus all their attention on you and dedicating themselves to the task of pleasuring you so thoroughly you can barely remember your name.

No, actually, that is not strictly correct. There are many attractive men in this world, including those who continue to haunt my dreams even now. But I know my feelings for Ilias. I am beginning to put a name to my feelings for Beckett, even if that name is one that terrifies me. The pleasure, the _joy_ of our last encounter is entirely due to the emotions between us, and not something as base as simple physical attraction.

We are... continuing, I suppose. My feelings for Beckett have not changed as I feared they would, and he is used to sharing. This is new for both Ilias and I; while we have enjoyed physical intimacy with others (he more than I), neither of us have been emotionally involved with more than one person. This will be a learning curve for all of us.

However, I do look forward to learning it.

-

_11:46 PM, 13th March 2007_

We have accidentally become domestic.

By which I mean we - being myself, Ilias, and Beckett - are now renting an apartment together, one of the many basement apartments that the brownstone buildings of the Upper West Side host. This one is less than legal due to the lack of windows (the only ones being present in the front room, with the bedroom entirely in the dark due to the way the building has been subdivided), and so it has fallen into Cainite hands, and available for lease for those requiring a longer stay.

Ilias' storage room haven is hardly suitable for one, let alone more, and he patently refuses to stay in a Tremere-owned apartment (something I cannot blame him for; the final death of his adored sire at their hands has remained a painful memory his entire unlife). Finding some place else, large enough for three, is a far better option.

And so we are now... cohabitating. There is only one bedroom, the kitchen is unusable, and the bathroom has seen better days. But it has hot water and a bathtub, we do not need a kitchen, and the bedroom does not have windows; for now, it will suffice.

The reason behind it is frightening, I will freely admit. We are remaining in New York to ensure that what lies beneath does not rise again, with all the challenges and terrors the coming conflict will entail. We could meet final death here, one or all of us. I could lose what I have spent centuries looking for.

For many long years, I was fearless. It was not through courage that I did not feel the icy taint of fear, but lack of self-preservation. Had I died, it would simply be an end to a story I had grown weary of reading.

Now I fear again. I fear for Ilias, for Beckett. For myself, should I lose either of them.

I have gained and regained more in the past five months alone that I possessed over seven hundred and seventy-two years. I have my own mind, and body, and soul back. I have Ilias back. My enmity with Beckett has turned into friendship and something more, something intangible and precious.

I do not want to lose this.

-

_7:14 PM, 14th March 2007_

Forgive any incoherence, it is very early in the evening. Beckett is up, I can hear him showering; Ilias still sleeps.

I dreamed of the Dracon again.

In this dreamscape, we sit cross-legged and facing each other, the rest of our surrounds a featureless black. There are no distractions here, only he and I, in an inescapable space where even walking away ensures you will find yourself right back where you started.

Believe me, I have tried.

Neither of us spoke at first, in this dream. We simply watched each other with the resigned acceptance of two beings who know each other far too intimately. And then he laughed, and said, "Do you really think he will stay, once he learns all you have done?"

I did not bother dignifying this dream Dracon with an answer. Over the centuries, I had grown accustomed to the thoughts that would drift across my mind - self-loathing, angry, bitter. For those centuries, I wondered if they had originated with him entirely, polluting my consciousness, until his extraction and the continued presence of these thoughts. Now, I wonder if I have simply become used to expressing my own self-loathing in his voice; he has become the avatar of my darkest imaginings.

And I have wondered many, many times over the past few days, over the past months since I learned Ilias still lived, if he would turn away in disgust at what I have become.

The Dracon is no longer within me. This fear is entirely my own. But still, his own bitterness and self-loathing matched my own too well; he is now the voice with whom I express my own fears.

If he has become the avatar of my own self-hatred, however, he can become the target of my response. I can answer back to these thoughts, externalise them, place them at one remove and begin to come up with answers that are not tainted by my negativity.

"He knows of my reputation," I told the Dracon, and told myself. "And my reputation is perhaps the only thing worse than my actions. And still he remained."

The Dracon laughed here, and briefly, he assumed the appearance of one of my victims, someone who had committed some minor transgression and whom I had tormented and tortured until they longed for final death. Despite his mangled mouth, he still said, in a voice all too clear, "He knows the words, but not the meaning. He does not truly recognise the suffering you inflicted on so many. He knows how much you were feared by those you never touched, but he did not understand what those you did touch underwent."

"He has consumed others," I said. "We know this is a torment greater than physical pain, enduring the physical destruction of the soul. He understands. And he knows I was not myself."

Laughter again. His appearance returned to normal, and he reached forward, embraced me, tucked me into his arms like I was a child. I could not find the strength within my limbs to pull away as he kissed my forehead. He said, "My poor foolish childe," and it was in the voice and manner of how Symeon had spoken to me in my dream last week.

(We are a damaged lineage, aren't we? From the Eldest to the Dracon, to Gesu, to Symeon, to myself. I am glad to have never Embraced anyone, and yet I wonder if my siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles of the blood have suffered similarly.)

I finally found the strength to pull away from him. Although I cannot walk away from him in these dreams, I can still at least avoid the indignity of succumbing to his embrace. We glared at each other.

"You are not who you were," he said, and a third figure appeared, kneeling beside us. Myself, as I appeared when I first met Ilias, so young in comparison to my jaded eyes, still so uncertain and afraid.

"Good," I said, and forced myself awake.

I reached for this diary and began writing. Ilias is stirring now, and he is watching me, sleepily and quizzically; I will end this recount here.

-

 **From:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
**To:** dbreath@sunburst.co.ck  
**CC:** eu.insumi@schreckNET.nod  
**Subject:** New York

Theo,

I am sure you have heard of the rumours out of New York City, or more specifically, from under it. I am assembling a team to deal with it, and your expertise and access to incendiary weapons will be quite invaluable. Let me know your availability. We will likely need a large number of ghouls to handle it during the daylight hours, and anyone you can think of who can sufficiently deal with fire and flamethrowers.

If you could contact Pieterzoon as well, it would be of use too. This is well and truly within his purview. And for the love of God, tell him NOT to wear one of his damn designer suits - this is going to get messy.

Sincerely,

Beckett

P.S. I am surprised Pascek hasn't tried to call a blood hunt on you for your email address yet. He seems like he's just looking for an excuse.

-

_4:46 AM, 16th March 2007_

An interesting night. Ilias and I have worked out a solution, of sorts, for the blood he needs. He is now, in essence, akin to one of the methuselah, and the blood he requires to survive is similarly potent.

In feeding on the Cainites of New York, largely limited to neonates and ancillae, he has at times been obligated to consume them, simply to satiate his thirst. This is distressing to him - he is gentle, and it is cruel to force him to hunt his own kind to survive.

I, however, am substantially older than most here in the city. Provided I hunt before and sometimes after, my own blood is potent enough.

The act of being fed on is... intimate, and it carries risk for both of us. If he was to lose control, I am not certain I would be able or willing to defend myself against him; and by tasting my blood, I will have bound him to me within a matter of nights.

We were bound this way before, only three years past for him but centuries for me. He says he is perfectly content for the bond to be one way, that he has missed the bond we shared, that I am not obligated to reciprocate; that I may stay free of the blood bond.

I suppose there's something ironic to it. The Anarch Revolt began on the back of breaking our bonds, and the Sabbat exists today without self-destructing only due to the Vaulderie. But I was not one of those who participated in shattering the bonds that held us; my sire did not need a blood oath to control me, and my bond with Ilias was nothing but positive.

I agreed to it. We will renew our bond.

No doubt Beckett thinks me the fool. I cannot bring myself to care. I know my feelings for Ilias, and I know they have not changed with the fading of the original bond. I enter this renewed one willingly.

-

_2:27 AM, 17th March 2007_

This little mission is beginning to get out of hand. We already have two Archons involved (one, much to my dismay, is Pieterzoon; if he thinks I have forgotten him burning a tome belonging to Caias Koine before I could claim it, he can think again); now, there are rumours that Sejanus may be coming here as well.

To say I am not keen on seeing him is an understatement. If he tries to seize control of the situation I _will_ try to kill him again, and this time I will succeed. (And not even because I wish to regain control of DC, more that the man just seems to exist to press every button I possess. I suppose it's _probably_ unethical to deliver final death to someone simply because of how much they irritate you, and yet...)

This is Tzimisce business, and Ilias and I are accepting outside help due to the sheer logistics of what's required, but I am less than impressed with who precisely will be involved.

It is now past three. I have spoken to Beckett about my reservations; he has assured me that he will handle Sejanus, Pieterzoon, Bell, and the like, and that I need not even reveal myself to them. As far as anyone is concerned, I will just be another member of Beckett's team. They are unlikely to recognise me, thankfully.

Still. Sejanus and Pieterzoon in the same room. If there are no further entries from me, I have defenestrated myself out of sheer irritation.

-

 **From:** eu.insumi@schreckNET.nod  
**To:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
**CC:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
**Subject:** NYC mission

Ms Sturbridge,

No doubt you have now received Beckett's email regarding our upcoming excursion into the depths of New York. I would like to add an additional request along with the support you are providing.

One of my companions, who shall remain nameless to protect their privacy, has had some intensely negative experiences with your clan. While they have grudgingly agreed to work beside you, knowing that you were not one of those responsible for the suffering they have experienced, please be mindful of their issues with the Tremere.

It would be greatly appreciated.

-

 **From:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
**To:** eu.insumi@schreckNET.nod  
**CC:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
**Subject:** RE: NYC mission

My anonymous correspondent,

I understand that my clan has been responsible for a significant amount of grief in the past. It is my hope I will serve as a good ambassador for the Tremere, and will avoid speaking with undue enthusiasm of my clan and our history.

May I ask who I am speaking with?

Aisling Sturbridge

_"Tact is the knack of making a point without making an enemy."_  
Isaac Newton

-

 **From:** eu.insumi@schreckNET.nod  
**To:** aisling.sturbridge@fiveboroughs.com  
**CC:** beckett@schreckNET.nod  
**Subject:** RE: RE: NYC mission

Ms Sturbridge,

You may certainly ask, but I would greatly prefer not to answer. Still, you have my gratitude in your cooperation.

-

_9:23 PM, 18th March 2007_

On the plus side, I do not have to deal with Pieterzoon and Sejanus in the same room.

On the downside, I have to deal with Pieterzoon and _Talley_ in the same room.

The latter seems to be cooperating with Bell in these nights. Wonders will never cease. Still, Bell has spent the lion's share of his time with Pieterzoon, and with the coterie he has brought with him. I have had the occasional encounter with them in my tenure as Archbishop, and know that they are all formidable fighters and also have absolutely no love whatsoever for me.

I suspect they are armed (Garinson, another of the Rabble, seems to be emitting a jingling sound with every movement). Both they and Talley have wished to see the violent separation of my head and my body at times - while Bell and his flunkies have your standard Camarilla resistance against me, Talley did seem to take my ejection of him from my service and my bed personally. While Beckett has enacted promises of non-violence, I do not wish to push my luck, and so I am using my own skill of diplomacy and carefully avoiding any conflict.

By which I mean I am hiding in the bathroom.

It's almost amusing. Bell and Talley have spent the last year waging war across DC against "Vykos' Sabbat" despite the fact that I haven't been involved in the city (or even present) since before their campaign even started. My concerns are greater, currently concerning what lies beneath this city; if they are wise, they will forget dealing with easily roused Sabbat neonates and start dealing with the true threats that exist towards _all_ Cainites, regardless of sectarian divisions.

It does strike me as somewhat amusing, too, how many gathered here to stop the remains of an Antediluvian belong to the Camarilla, to the sect dedicated to erasing all knowledge of the Antediluvians. Along with the aforementioned Archons, Pieterzoon and Bell, and Talley, we have also gathered here Calebros of the New York Warren, Qadir al-Asmai, Sheriff, and, much to my dismay, Aisling Sturbridge of the Chantry of the Five Boroughs. Ilias, whose trauma at the hands of the Tremere are still so recent for him, has expressed his own dislike of the Chantry being involved, but has grudgingly agreed to allow it given Sturbridge's relative youth and the urgency of the situation.

Along with Pieterzoon's support staff, al-Asmai's hounds, and Sturbridge's retainer, the apartment is getting rather crowded. I wonder what the neighbours must thi

-

**[RECORDING BEGINS]**

**Beckett:** Ah, there you are. Well, shall we get back to the topic at hand?

 **Vykos:** [sighing] Yes, I suppose so.

**[SHOUTING, LARGELY INDISTINCT BUT THE NAME 'VYKOS' CLEAR ENOUGH. SQUELCHING, CRACKING SOUND.]**

**Garinson:** [yell of pain] My arm! You sick fuck!

 **Beckett:** Sascha, let him go!

 **Vykos:** You will forgive me for defending myself from being _punched in the face_. Next time I'll just let him strike me, shall I?

 **Garinson:** [angry jingling noises] Don't you ever fucking touch me again, Fiend freak.

 **Vykos:** If you don't try to _punch me in the face_ again, gladly.

 **Talley:** Beckett, you knew Vykos was here, didn't you?

 **Beckett:** Your skills of observation remain as sharp as ever.

 **cel Frumos:** Everyone! We're working together on this, so can we all calm down and get back to planning? Come sit by me, Sascha.

 **Sturbridge:** Athanasios, you know this Fiend?

 **cel Frumos:** Er, yes. I am sorry, I have misrepresented myself. My name is Ilias cel Frumos of clan Tzimisce.

 **Sturbridge:** You filthy liar! Deceiver! How dare you?

 **cel Frumos:** Oh yes, forgive me for wanting to hide my true clan from an _Usurper_!

 **Vykos:** Ilias...

 **Sturbridge:** I have had nothing to do with whatever happened in the past! Most of us haven't, yet you all tarnish us with the same 'Usurper' nonsense!

 **cel Frumos:** You call us Fiends and brand us all as madmen! How is that any different?!

 **Talley:** Please, like your clan hasn't had a history of monstrousness. Look at who you're sitting next to.

 **Vykos:** And of course you are a paragon of virtue, _Turncoat_.

 **Talley:** Me? I'm the turncoat? _Me_?

 **Vykos:** Turncoat, and another word: idiot. I haven't been involved in DC in over a year and you still wage war against 'my' Sabbat? You seem afraid to admit to your master that you've lost control of some leaderless shovelheads.

 **Bell:** I mean, in fairness, you're both treacherous scum.

 **Talley:** I should slap the words out of your mouth, Bell.

 **Vykos:** Oh, please do, I'd love to see how you'd handle a round of Dragon's Breath.

**[LOUD BANGING NOISE]**

**Beckett:** _Shut up!_ All of you, sit down and shut up! Talley, drop the shadows. Theo, drop the gun. Qadir, you won't need your sword. Ilias, Aisling, both of your clans have done terrible things, you're both fine people nonetheless, relax. Sascha, sit _down_. Everyone else, stop trying to kill Sascha, we're working together here. Garinson, your arm is back to normal, it's fine. Sascha will apologise, won't they?

 **Vykos:** ...My apologies.

 **Beckett:** Good. Garinson, apologise to Sascha for trying to punch them.

 **Garinson:** [irritated jingling] ...Sorry.

 **Beckett:** Okay! Good. Now that we've all kissed and made up, shall we get on with planning?

 **Talley:** Wait, you and Vykos are fucking?

 **Vykos:** Why, are you jealous?

 **Beckett:** Oh for fuck's sake.

**[RECORDING ENDS]**

-

_3:02 AM, 19th March 2007_

Forgive the sudden ending of my last entry. I had been interrupted.

We have just concluded a rather productive planning session. There was some minor altercation at the beginning, but easily resolved; we now have a plan on dealing with what lies below.

The ghouls will begin once the sun has risen. The... remains will be at their weakest then, and they should make good headway. Once the sun sets, we will proceed to different entrances, with Ilias, Beckett and I using the approach from the gallery. I have Creatio Ignis at my disposal; Ilias has, to my surprise, started learning the Way of Fire. Beckett has a flamethrower, and I admit to not an insignificant amount of fear at the prospect.

Sturbridge, despite being one of the Usurpers, has proven herself - she will be providing all of us with amulets meant to calm the mind against the traditional fear of fire, along with more typical amulets and wards against danger. While I face no fear of my own flames, nor Ilias for his, we could easily be set off by each other's; if we are to work together, we shall need to do so without fear.

To return to the previous topic: I had been interrupted by someone entering the bathroom. This was, to my surprise, Pieterzoon; he seemed just as surprised to see that it was occupied and gave some hasty apologies. I replied that it was not a problem; he narrowed his eyes and identified me by name. My accent and cadence gave me away, it seems, even if the precise timbre is not as expected.

We gave each other a stare-down. It briefly amused me that if it was to come down to a battle of who could Dominate the other first, I would still win, despite his clan. Then he relaxed, and sat down against the other wall, asking if I was avoiding all the socialising as well. It seems that even the Childe of the Camarilla has their introverted moments.

I confess to teasing a little, asking what his sire thought of him running off to fight the remains of Antediluvians. Again surprisingly me, he hesitated, then admitted that Hardestadt did not actually know, and that he would prefer it stayed that way. Given that Hardestadt and I... do not get on and haven't for some centuries (the Convention of Thorns being what it was), I assured Pieterzoon he would not hear it from my lips.

"Or any other body parts?" he joked. I will admit, I laughed.

At this point, he mentioned something that intrigued me - namely, that he was looking forward to the opportunity, and that he would like to record the process of combating it, "For the sake of preserving those memories." I asked why, and he hesitated for a long moment, then repeated that his sire didn't know and that he would like to keep it that way.

I realised, then. What that realisation was, I will not set to paper, but suffice to say I understood much that I had found contradictory about Pieterzoon in the past.

Only partially in jest, I suggested diablerie. He smiled faintly, pointed out, "Like you did to your sire?", then stopped short, clearly having a realisation of his own.

The conversation from there was heavier, but we had reached some level of understanding towards each other. We spoke of the need to protect ourselves from the mechanations of our elders, something the Sabbat has lost sight of and which the Camarilla has no intention on stopping. It starts with stopping what lies beneath New York. It continues with my desire to put an end to Kupala and its stranglehold over my clan. It continues with Pieterzoon's desire to learn the truth - the _truth_ , and not the outright lies his sire pushes upon him for the sake of maintaining his grasp on power.

We ended the conversation and returned to the living room to continue the planning session, albeit with a few teething issues to smooth through first. Now, all have departed. Ilias and Beckett are going over the maps, with Ilias filling in what he can from memory; I am writing and I am reflecting on the conversation I had with Pieterzoon.

I question the role of the Sabbat in these modern nights. When I helped to found it, it was to serve as a weapon, to be the Sword of Caine against the elders that sought to control and manipulate us, to consume us. We have lost sight of this task. We have fallen to decadence and monstrous acts in a way to proudly assert our lack of humanity, to revel in it.

And we are not human, but neither are we monsters. I have spent centuries attempting to fine-tune the Sabbat into a weapon, and instead I have set loose a ravening hoard; if it is no longer fit for purpose, then what remains?

The Camarilla? Obviously not. They will not take any action that will rob them of their power. The Anarch Movement? The modern-day Anarchs rebel for the sake of rebellion. While their refusal to be cowed by the Camarilla is begrudgingly admirable, it does nothing for our current situation.

Perhaps something new is required.

First steps first, however. I am going to spend the rest of the night with my lovers, and then, the next evening, we will begin the process of finding our freedom.

-

_5:36 PM, 19th March 2007_

It is very early. Ilias' sleep has been restless and beset with terrible dreams and pain. While I am normally in the middle, we had moved Ilias to lie between Beckett and I, to keep him shielded and comforted.

I fear for us all, but he most of all. He is connected in a way I cannot understand.

We will rise soon, and then we will proceed to the gallery and into the underground.

I do not know what we will find there, but I will find out.

-

**[RECORDING BEGINS]**

**Beckett:** We're deep beneath New York. It's a little before midnight, we've been working now for hours. The tunnels here are lined with pulsating flesh, mostly. Sometimes it's just veins and webbed skin, or something like a fungus. Thankfully, they're all quite susceptible to fire.

 **Vykos:** So are we, I would point out.

 **Beckett:** Yes, unfortunately. Still. There are parts that lie beneath the water - ankle-deep, here - but they seem to be cleared out sufficiently just by targeting the dry parts. At any rate, we've found ourselves at an open space, with a... I suppose a plug of flesh blocking the tunnel across the way from us. There are a few other tunnels, but none seem to be, er, infected. We're -

**[A SNARL, AND THE SOUND OF SOMETHING LARGE MOVING THROUGH THE SHALLOW WATER.]**

**Beckett:** Shit!

 **Vykos:** Ilias, get back!

 **cel Frumos:** Wait! Wait, I can handle this. It's fine. This is Svyatogor. My brother. He won't hurt me.

 **Beckett:** ...Oh.

 **cel Frumos:** It's okay, Svya. We're just cleaning out what's left so no one gets hurt, you see?

**[DEEP, ANIMALISTIC GROWL]**

**cel Frumos:** Listen, you must find Dobrynya and Alyosha. The others have already left, and the three of you must too, or you'll be hunted down. Please.

 **Vykos:** [in undertone] ...bogatyri.

 **Beckett:** [in undertone] Mm. Svyatogor here is the one who used me as a chew toy.

**[WORDS SAID IN A DEEP, GROWLING VOICE]**

**Vykos:** [in undertone] That is... spirit language. The Kolduns use it.

 **cel Frumos:** But... he's already gone.

**[MORE GROWLING LANGUAGE]**

**cel Frumos:** ...Oh. I - thank you for - give me a moment.

**[MORE GROWLING LANGUAGE]**

**cel Frumos:** I know. I know. [A heavy sigh, and the sound of someone wading through water] Sascha... I have to go.

 **Vykos:** What? Where? What does it want with you?

 **cel Frumos:** I have something I have to do. I won't be harmed, I promise you. I...

 **Vykos:** Ilias?

 **cel Frumos:** I probably won't see you again.

 **Vykos:** No!

 **cel Frumos:** [tearfully] I'm sorry. I have to. I didn't know, but - I have to.

 **Vykos:** I won't let it take you!

 **cel Frumos:** You don't have a choice. Neither of us do. Te iubesc, floarea mea.

 **Vykos:** Ilias! _ILIAS!_

**[THE SOUND OF RUNNING THROUGH SHALLOW WATER, FOLLOWED BY A SNARL. LOUD SQUELCHING NOISE, FOLLOWED BY A SCREAM.]**

**Beckett:** Sascha, wait!

 **Vykos:** _Let me go!_

 **Beckett:** Sascha, it's closed again, it's too late!

**[A SQUELCHING NOISE, FOLLOWED BY A CRY OF PAIN AND A WET TEARING NOISE]**

**Beckett:** Shit! Let me see -

 **Vykos:** It's fine, I'm _fine_ , I have to get to Ilias -

 **Beckett:** But your hand -

 **Vykos:** I don't _care_!

 **Beckett:** I do! Let me see - it's fine, see? It's already sealed over, you can - it's only fingers, you can regrow them, right?

 **Vykos:** I - yes, but -

**[MUFFLED SOBBING]**

**Beckett:** I've got you. I've got you.

**[RECORDING ENDS]**

-

**[RECORDING BEGINS]**

**Beckett:** Recording is on again.

**[IN THE BACKGROUND, THROUGHOUT RECORDING, THE SOUND OF TWO PEOPLE MOVING RAPIDLY THROUGH KNEE-DEEP WATER.]**

**Beckett:** We - I'm not sure how to describe it. Svyatogor, the bogatyr I, er, met earlier, appeared. It... communicated with Ilias. And he left. The wall of flesh blocking up the other passage opened up, Ilias and the bogatyr went through it, and it closed again.

 **Beckett:** [in undertone] Is it okay to say what happened?

 **Vykos:** Mm.

 **Beckett:** Sasch - sorry - Vykos struck at it, presumably to try and rip it open with Vicissitude. Instead, it caught on to their hand and wouldn't let go. They severed the part of their hand that was connected to the... flesh, and released themself. The rest got, er, absorbed.

 **Vykos:** I hope my nail polish gives it indigestion.

 **Beckett:** It's probably not the weirdest thing it's eaten. Anyway. We were preparing to try to burn it, when the flesh started to retreat down the passage. At the same time, Vykos said they felt something like a beckoning that urged them to follow.

 **Vykos:** And so we're doing that, if there is even the slightest chance of Ilias being at the other end.

 **Beckett:** Right.

**[PAUSE, THE SOUND OF HURRYING THROUGH WATER CONTINUING]**

**Vykos:** We do not know what's at the other end. We could be facing anything, up to and including the Eldest itself. But if it wants Ilias, I refuse to give him up without a fight. It will not take him from me again. This much, I promise.

 **Beckett:** ...Right.

**[RECORDING ENDS]**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: meat crimes.

All in all, Beckett has had better nights.

He's knee-deep in water and god knows what else, hurrying down ancient passageways lined with bones. It's dark enough that he's obliged to use Protean just to make sure he doesn't end up falling into the mire; he keeps a firm grip on Sascha's good hand.

Sascha has been silent since they finished the recording. Beckett thinks he can feel the cold hand in his trembling. He keeps hold tight, jaw set, not willing to let Sascha sprint off into the unknown that lies ahead, wanting to give what comfort he can through the touch of his ungloved skin.

He shifts his shoulders. The flamethrower on its strap digs between his scapulae; he's horribly conscious of the destructive power it holds. He is thinking of that day, of waking abruptly at around nine in the morning to hear Ilias crying out softly, his features screwed up in pain. He and Sascha had to have both realised it then, that the actions of the ghouls against the remains of the Eldest had hurt Ilias too.

And still, he had ventured down into the Earth with Beckett and Sascha, had wielded his own flames to fight it. To help people.

He wants to speak words of reassurances, to tell Sascha that it'll be alright. He doesn't. He won't lie, won't make promises he knows he can't keep, won't say that everything will be fine when he may well not be.

Something he had to do, he had said. Beckett doesn't know what Ilias' task is, but he's not sure it's anything good.

Without the flames, the tunnels had been frigid, bare stone and cold water. Now, they are starting to warm again, signs of flesh and skin beginning to cover the walls again, twisted into intricate patterns his eyes can only just distinguish.

"Sascha," he murmurs, tugging gently on their hand, "There are patterns here - anything you've ever seen before?"

Wordlessly, Sascha pulls their good hand free, summoning a flickering ball of flame in their palm. It casts shadows that leaves Beckett jumpy, eerie even without the context of what they're doing; the patterns resolve into script.

"Spirit language," they finally say, voice soft. "It's spirit language. I can't read it."

"You mentioned it earlier."

Sascha nods, weariness in the single gesture. "Svyatogor spoke in it. Ilias knows it, too - all the Koldunic sorcerers do. And -" They hesitate, then add, "The Dracon wrote his journals in an archaic form of it. He learned it from the Eldest, who learned it from Kupala."

"The Eldest..." Beckett gazes down the passage, into the dark where Sascha's flames don't penetrate. "What do you think is at the end?"

Tersely: "I don't know." Then, "But if Ilias is down there, then we have to keep going."

They keep going.

Sascha leads him to a cathedral.

Beckett has heard stories of the Cathedral of Flesh. This is not it, but it does seem to be a homage to the place that consumed its very creator, the place that - as Sascha tells it - nurtured the reborn Eldest in its most vulnerable moments. The arched ceiling is lined not with stone, but with bone; cords of sinew and tendon cross the roof like rafters.

In the middle of the chamber, deep beneath the city, is an alter, and on the alter sits Ilias.

His bare feet dangle above the fleshy floor, strands of skin and muscle binding him in place. His hands, resting beside him, are similarly fused to the meat that covers the alter like a shroud. His expression, when he sees them, is a pained smile.

"I'm sorry," he says, softly.

Sascha steps forward, tugging their hand free of Beckett's. "What is this place?" they say, and Beckett can hear the furious, demanding tone that he knows Sascha uses when they're too afraid to sound calm, "Why did it bring you - bring _us_ \- here?

Ilias raises a hand with effort, still bound to the flesh with living muscle strung with blood vessels, and gestures. "When the Eldest escaped Lugoj's attempt on its life," he explains, "Lambach Ruthven and the Szantovich Revenants brought it here. Its body was lain on this very alter, and from there, it..." For a moment, he frowns, searching for the words. "Grew. Became _more_. This is the heart from where it all began."

Sascha shakes their head. "All of this infestation, the rot - it began here?"

A nod. "And it will end here. The Eldest is gone, more or less, but..." Again, that hesitation. "A part of it remained. A memory. Kind of like what I am, I suppose. It left this part of itself for two things - the first, to give me my task, and the second, to await your arrival."

Beckett can _see_ Sascha's shock, the way their frame shudders, hunches in. "Why me?" they say, and their voice breaks. "Why _you_? What does it want with you?"

Ilias grimaces. "My part is easy enough to explain. It's what Svyatogor was telling me earlier. The bogatyri - they have been incomplete since the battles that hit New York between the Camarilla and the Sabbat. You see, one of them died. His name was Ilya. I suppose 'Ilias' is a perfectly acceptable substitute for 'Ilya', you know?"

Sascha seems unable or unwilling to force the words past their lips, so now, Beckett steps forward, his brow furrowed. "It wants you to become a bogatyr."

A strained smile. "I already am one, I suppose. That was what I was created to be. The Eldest needed a servant. It remembered me. It thought I would do sufficiently. Beckett, you remember I called Svyatogor my brother, yes?"

He nods, slowly.

Ilias almost laughs, but the fear on his face is still clear. "I didn't realise quite how literal it was. When I said I wouldn't be harmed, I meant it. The pain I felt before wasn't my own destruction, it was a summons. A call to war. I've been brought back for a reason."

"I won't let it have you," Sascha says, and the words come out in a growl.

Again, Ilias shakes his head, that desperately sad smile still on his face. "I know. This is... not what I would have chosen, but I don't think I have a choice. And anyway, the Eldest," he says slowly, "Has questions for you. I - I suppose you should listen."

For a moment, there is silence. And then the whispers begin from thousands of lips, thousands of mouths, coalescing out of the flesh that lines the cathedral like mosaic. At first, Beckett can't make the words out, spoken in the spirit language he had heard Svyatogor speak in; then the words _Sascha Vykos_ slip from a thousand mouths.

Sascha's fear is clear, clear enough that Beckett moves to stand at their side - then nearly topples over from the tendons and ligaments growing over his boots, binding him in place. Nothing attached directly to his skin, not like Ilias has become physically a part of this tainted cathedral - still, he can't move, can't comfort them, can't run.

The Beast growls from under his skin, fear barely held at bay.

"I'm listening," Sascha says quietly, although their voice trembles.

"Sascha Vykos," the mouths whisper again, then ask, "Where is my childe?"

From his position, Beckett can just see Sascha's eyes fall shut. "Gone."

A ripple through the walls. A sense of anger, a pressure in Beckett's head that builds and builds. He feels something wet drip past his lips, raises a hand to find his nose is bleeding. His Beast is suddenly, startlingly, cowed into silence and he knows, _knows_ that he stands within - within! - an Antediluvian, or something so immensely powerful its precise identity and generation don't matter.

"Where is my childe?" it asks again, and the pressure increases. Sascha's fingers dig into their upper arms; Ilias, on the alter, closes his eyes to the pain.

"Michael. Michael took him away."

The anger is still there, tangled up with determination, triumphant discovery. Fierce, protective love. Beckett doesn't know how much the Eldest knows about Michael, knows about the relationship he shared with the Dracon, what both of them had done to Sascha, but he knows this - the Eldest loves the Dracon to the point of tearing apart the earth to protect him.

Suddenly he's not much fancying Michael and Mary's chances of survival, should they be judged an ill-suited caretaker for the Eldest's most beloved childe.

"We will," it says, "Go to Michael."

It takes him a moment to recognise what had caught his attention about the phrase. Earlier, the Eldest had asked where their child was, in the singular. Now, it speaks in the plural, and he's fairly certain the Eldest isn't some kind of hive mind, or a collective, or a fusion of more than one soul, fighting for dominance over the same body.

The Eldest does not intend to travel alone.

"My lord," Ilias says, his voice still so soft, "Must I travel with you?"

That immense pressure again. Beckett has a headache by now, throbbing between his eyes, leaving him struggling to concentrate. When the Eldest confirms _yes_ , it lessens; when it does, Sascha makes a noise of horror and despair and takes a stumbling step forward only to crash to their knees from the sinew wound around their own boots.

They had caught themself with their hands, one still intact, the other mangled and half severed. The flesh catches hold of these hands, fuses skin to skin.

"Sascha Vykos," the Eldest says, "You are so like him."

The flesh in front of Sascha is shifting, distorting, like something struggling to push past the muscle. It forms a shape, humanoid, tall beyond human norm but featureless, and this construct of meat crouches before Sascha and rests a gentle hand against their cheek.

Sascha makes a soft sound of pain.

"Come with us."

"As what?" Sascha does not look away, likely can't with the flesh figure touching them, but Beckett can see their good hand curl into a fist as best it can with skin and muscle fused to the floor of the cathedral. "As a bogatyr?"

"Become a part of us. Become Azhi Dahaka. Become Tzimisce."

A shudder, visible even from where Beckett is stranded.

The hand moves, strokes Sascha's hair. It's loving. Paternal, and this is only further verified as it continues, "Your mortal father wished for an heir. A firstborn son to make him proud. He did not see, understand, nor appreciate what he had before him. Your sire, Symeon, my great-grandchilde - he failed you. He betrayed you, and he met his rightful death at your fangs."

Beckett can't tear his eyes from the flesh form, from the way it lifts Sascha's chin, the way it presses a parody of a kiss against their forehead.

"Come with me. Be as my own childe. Be a part of my legacy. Be Tzimisce."

Tears drip down Sascha's face. The Eldest wipes them away, the blood absorbed into its form. "What if I say no?" they say, and it comes out hoarse.

The construct tilts its head, like it had not considered the question before. "Then you will leave this place."

"And Ilias?"

"He is bogatyri," the Eldest says, and the _no_ is unspoken but clear, clear enough that Sascha shakes their head, finally twists away, eyes squeezed shut.

Still, tears fall from beneath their lashes. They still tremble as they push the question past their reluctant lips: "Is there no way you can release him from this duty?"

"Why?"

The worst part, Beckett thinks, is that the Eldest seems sincerely perplexed. It's admittedly difficult to tell the facial expression of something that doesn't have a true face, but its body language speaks volumes - a question in those false limbs, wondering why on earth someone would ever want to refuse what it no doubt thought was a most sacred duty.

Completeness. A joining. It had been the one to force the Dracon upon Sascha in the first place, Beckett knows, to use Sascha's body as a living incubator for the soul of its most beloved childe.

"Because," Sascha says, and their gaze meets Ilias', "Because I love him."

_I could never say it,_ Sascha had told him a week earlier, a lifetime ago. _I could never say it,_ and now the words are free, the shock and wonder and love written over Ilias' face, and the Eldest lets out a shudder and dissolves back into the fleshy floor.

The mouths lining the walls shiver and change. Eyes peer at them, blink, stare down at them.

"You understand love," Sascha continues, sitting back on their heels, still unable to stand but a quiet composure settling around them, meeting the nearest of those eyes. "You feel it for your childe. You felt love when you decided he would survive at all costs. You felt it second hand when Ilias died, using the last of the love in his soul to protect me from you." They laugh, a little unsteadily. "I don't expect you to grant me this. But I have spent centuries suffering because of your actions, and if you understand love, if you see _anything_ of the Dracon in me, then please - show us both you love us. Let him go."

For a long, long moment, there is silence.

"My lord," Ilias says, and his voice is soft, hands clasped together in a silent plea the best he can, "You brought me back. I'm grateful for that, I swear, I truly am. But I'm not yet ready to be yours, and I swear I will return to you one day, but not yet. Please. Three years without my flower has been agony for me, and I can't even imagine how hard it's been for them. Let us have this. Please."

The cathedral around them seems to sigh. Then the cords of skin and muscle binding Ilias' hands and feet snap, retreat back into the flesh, leaving him stumbling off the alter.

For a small eternity, he and Sascha gaze at each other. And then Ilias is running, flinging himself onto his knees and into Sascha's arms, their newly freed, newly repaired hands clinging like they'll never let go again.

Beckett is smiling, despite how much his heart is aching. Smiling, because Sascha is reaching out to touch Ilias with reverent hands, because their eyes are wide and bright and alive with awe, because he can hear the whispers of _te iubesc, te iubesc_ over and over from them both and doesn't need to be fluent in Romanian to know it means _I love you_.

Something curls around his shoulders.

Beckett starts violently, tries to twist away from the tendrils of flesh creeping up his legs and back, reaching for him, binding him. "And you, Gangrel," the Eldest murmurs, far, far too close for his liking, "What place is there here for you, save as sustenance for my bogatyri? Why have you come to bear witness to the love of others?"

He swallows, hard. Sascha and Ilias have turned to him, Sascha's eyes wide, lips parted in silent shock.

What does he have to lose? He's probably about to be eaten. Beckett laughs, and says, "Because I love Sascha as well. It doesn't matter if there's no room for me. If they're happy, then that was enough for me to fight for."

"Beckett -" Sascha starts, then stops themself, eyes still so wide.

Beckett only shakes his head, smiles ruefully because it's true, because there's something in his unbeating heart that's warm and content seeing Sascha so obviously, blindingly happy in Ilias' arms. And that, he thinks, is enough; that is its own reward. The knowledge that someone he loves is happy, that someone he loves is loved in return.

"Although," he adds, mostly to the flesh wrapped around him like the world's goriest scarf, "I'd still prefer not to be eaten, if it's all the same with you."

It stills, heavy over his shoulders. "You would love without reciprocation or expectation?"

"Yes," he says, still almost shaking from the dread presence but calmer, resolute in his words. "Far be it from me to explain to you what love is, but it doesn't need to be reciprocated to be a positive force. Just experiencing it can be enough. Knowing that you _feel_ so much about someone or something that it enhances your life."

He knows, even as he says it, that he will forgive Anatole - who had acted in love, and who he will accept with love in turn. He knows that he will accept Sascha's choice, whatever it is. And when he raises his gaze and meets Sascha's eyes, the smile he gives them is genuine.

The flesh tendrils slither from his shoulders and slip back into the floor, and then he's almost stumbling, struggling to keep his balance as skin and muscle slips away from beneath his boots, leaving soil and stone in its wake. The cathedral is drawing in on itself, bones folding away into muscles, skin retracting, revealing a natural stone cavern deep beneath the earth as the flesh continues to retract to a quivering bundle of muscles suspended above them like a chandelier.

"I will find my childe," the Eldest says, distantly. "I will love him. Gentle Ilya, Ilias cel Frumos - join me when your heart tells you the time has come, and in the mean time, love."

All that flesh, all the horror and hunger and loneliness and regret buried beneath New York - now, it draws to a point, to a single droplet of blood glowing from within that trembles for a moment as if still considering whether to fall, before landing neatly in Ilias' outstretched palm.

It is, suddenly, very dark.

Beckett blinks, calls on his stronger senses until the gloom recedes. Suddenly awkward, he approaches the two Tzimisce with uncertain footsteps.

"Well," Sascha says, and laughs with the manic relief of someone who has stared into the pit and been spat out again unharmed, burying their face in Ilias' hair, drawing Beckett into the embrace as well.

They cling to each other, the three of them.

It takes a while for them to break apart, Sascha calling up a handful of flame with their newly restored hand. ("Does it hurt at all?" "No, it's fully healed. It's my own flesh, just... repaired.") Ilias opens his curled hand, and their three heads bow to examine what lies there - a small red seed, like that of a pomegranate, deep as blood in colour.

"I'll protect it," he murmurs, and tucks it away in an inner pocket. "For when the time comes. Who knows when that will be? It could be centuries away." He smiles, hesitantly, cautiously. "I think, for now, he's given me the choice."

Sascha nods, their expression distant. "You wouldn't remember," they say softly, glancing at Ilias, "Because it happened after... after Sarmizegetusa. But we found the Dracon's journals, and had them translated. He had been given a choice too, the choice of whether to be Embraced or not, and this wasn't the choice between unlife or true death - the Eldest gave him the option to live a full mortal life, if that is what he desired. A true choice made in love." A soft sigh, and they raise the hand not holding the flames to trace Ilias' cheek. "I believe it gave you the same choice. You can choose to serve, or... you can live out your unlife however you see fit. It understood that again in the end, I think."

"A choice," Ilias murmurs, and rests a hand over the pocket. "I'm glad. It was lonely for a very long time, you know. I think it can understand better now."

Beckett laughs, and it's only tinged with a little hysteria. "Very reasonable for an Antediluvian, I think."

A slow grin crosses Sascha's face. "Oh, _yes_ ," they murmur, eyes glinting with mischief in the firelight, "Who was it again who believed that the Antediluvians were a myth? Who was that, I wonder?"

"It still doesn't prove the existence of Caine," Beckett mutters. " _Someone_ had to found the clans, that doesn't mean they all came from a single Biblical individual. Or Gehenna. No Gehenna here!"

Sascha laughs. Pulls him in to kiss him, breathless and relieved and still smiling. "It's a long way back to the surface," they say as they draw away, and turns to kiss Ilias as well. "We have a long journey ahead of us."

Beckett nods, smiling himself. "Then let's get started," he says, and leads them back to the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eu insumi = Romanian for 'myself'  
> Vamos trepar? = Portuguese for "Shall we fuck?" yes this is literally what Sascha says in BJD. Icon tbh  
> Desculpe! = Portuguese for "Excuse me!" / "Sorry!"


End file.
